The Mentalist: Red Roulette
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Collaboration with the wonderful waterbaby134. Set post season 5 finale. Jane and Lisbon must deal with Red John's changing rules, while being forced to play a new game of their own. But when tragedy hits close to home, will they be able to get past it to catch Red John, before he catches them? Spoilers 5x22. Drama/Romance/Angst/Humor. Rated T/M for language, violence and sexuality
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello! Welcome to the third collaboration between waterbaby134 and me. Continuing the tradition we began last year with our post-finale fic, "Scarlet Woman," we thought we'd try our hand this year with the newest bombshells they left us with. It picks up right where 5x22 ended, so if you haven't seen it yet, prepare to be spoiled. There are some really dark moments here as well as some light-hearted, so be prepared for that. At any rate, we hope you enjoy our newest effort. The first chapter was written by me…

**Red Roulette **

**Chapter 1**

"Let's take a walk, Lisbon," said Jane, after staring out the window for ten minutes, while he felt the weight of Lisbon's own stare on his back.

"A walk?" she said, still numb from the image of the ghost of Lorelei Martins.

Jane looked around the attic. "The walls have ears here." He nodded toward the seven pictures of Red John suspects, five of whom had full access to CBI Headquarters. "And eyes."

Outside, they walked slowly to the coffee cart parked outside the building, picked up a tea and sweet black coffee and strolled toward the park a block away.

"How did he know?" she asked finally.

"I have a couple of theories."

"You mind sharing with the class?" she said tightly. She felt like she was barely hanging on to her sanity here. She was frightened. Terrified. Red John was someone she knew, someone she too had probably shaken hands with. Maybe even someone she'd gone to lunch with, or played poker with. She cringed at the thought.

"Well, obviously it was a trick," said Jane. "The DVD was doctored."

"What? What do you mean?"

"About three weeks ago, someone broke into the attic and no doubt took pictures and notes about what was on my Red John board."

"Oh, really? How could they, given your paranoid padlocking?"

"Mr. Paranoid here used the old toothpick gag. It was on the floor, snapped in two at the end of the day. Same day the air conditioner repairmen came in. There's no air conditioning in the attic."

"Who do you think it was?"

Jane shrugged. "Somebody on that list, or someone who works for somebody on that list."

"So you're saying Red John altered that video and made it seem like he'd read your mind."

"Yeah. Usually the simplest explanation is the right one, yes?"

"Usually."

"Red John wants me to think he's one step ahead of me. Yeah, I got a lucky break because Lorelei had a big mouth, but Red John is one of my seven, I'd bet my life on it."

"And you are," she said softly.

They stopped and sat on a park bench, sipping their hot drinks and watching the children play on the jungle gym, the state capitol building looming in the background. Those innocent little ones were so happy, so oblivious to the evils of the world, some of which may well occupy offices in that very building. Sometimes Lisbon wished she too were blissfully ignorant.

Jane sat back against the bench, casually draping his arm behind Lisbon's shoulders. Not touching her, but for all he seemed relaxed, she could feel the tension emanating from him like a tangible thing.

"It's not just _my_ life, Lisbon." It was the lives of all those people Red John planned to kill. _Because of me_. But he didn't say it aloud; no point stating the obvious.

"Well, on the bright side, at least I don't have to worry about lying now," said Lisbon, searching for something to comfort them both.

Jane smiled a little. "That's right, Lisbon. Red John knows _we_ know he's one of seven. No sense pretending now."

Lisbon turned toward him, suddenly excited. "Well why the hell don't we just go up to each of the seven and confront them? You can read people. You'll know—"

"You forget I've known some of these people for years, and I could never be sure."

"But you've suspected—"

"Some of them. Okay. Three of them."

"You must suspect one more than all the rest."

"No. They are all equal possibilities. That's why there are seven. I hit a brick wall. That's as far down as I could whittle," he said wryly.

"Well let's confront them. One at a time. We'll bring the whole team, armed to the teeth-"

"No. It's too dangerous, Lisbon. And you could burn some serious bridges if you accuse the wrong man of being a serial killer. Besides, what proof would we have? I'm sure he's planned for this contingency."

They sat a few moments in silence, Lisbon's coffee forgotten as she held it in her lap. As a cop, all she could think about were the procedures she would be going through were this a normal case and they had seven possible suspects. There would be endless interviews and interrogations. She would bring out the big guns—Cho, of course. She'd have Jane measuring the suspects' reactions from the other side of the glass. But there were different rules now. Red John's rules. And none of these were ordinary suspects off the street.

"Let's talk about each one," she ventured. "Tell me your thoughts, how you arrived at them."

He turned his head to look at her directly for the first time since she'd heard Red John's letter.

"You seriously want to know how my mind works? Sure you can handle it?" He was only half-teasing her.

"I'm sure I couldn't even begin to fathom it. But humor me anyway."

Jane sighed and drank some tea.

"Stiles," she prompted, fingering the seven pictures she had dropped into her blazer pocket.

"Aw, good ol' Bret" said Jane, in what sounded almost like admiration. "He's the head of the cult where Red John apparently got his start. If he isn't Red John, he is in close contact, because he's known stuff only Red John would know, even acted as a messenger for him. If he _is_ Red John, he has the charisma and the mind control powers to manipulate hoards of followers. He has the perfect cover in Visualize. He is well-connected. I'm pretty sure he murdered one of the original founders of the cult. And…he helped me free Lorelei from jail."

"He what?" she cried, and Jane shot her a narrow look to remind her to control herself. He smiled at a few nervous nannies who looked their way.

"He owed me a favor. Amazing how easy it was for him to set a jailbird free."

"Holy crap, Jane," she said, trying to decide whether she was angry or in awe.

He shrugged. "You do what you gotta do, Lisbon. The most important reason why I suspect Bret, is because he simply gives me the willies. Those are feelings you should always pay attention to."

Lisbon nodded. "That's the Holy Ghost at work," she said automatically.

Jane's lips formed into a small smile. "The willies, the Holy Ghost, a gut feeling—whatever you like to call it—it is a sixth sense that only gets louder when you listen to it."

She totally agreed with him, but for her, it was a faith thing, a gift from God.

"What about Bertram?" she asked.

"You'll remember I thought he was Red John's mole once before. He still may well be, but he could also be the man himself. Who better to follow the CBI's every move? He has a way with the press, a charisma that pulls people in, gets them to believe whatever bullshit he spouts. And isn't it interesting how he's kept me on with the CBI, when he's had a million occasions to fire me? One could speculate he keeps me around to keep himself entertained—that's why Red John hasn't killed me yet, isn't it?"

"But none of this is proof, Jane. It's all coming from your gut."

"Another reason not to confront anyone, Lisbon, or tell anyone about this list. And I know you don't want to implicate Bertram, for example, and certainly not your old buddy, Haffner, if they're innocent."

"No," she said.

"So you have to trust me on this. When you told me Haffner admitted to being a member of Visualize, that pretty well clinched it for me. He's the right age to have been involved in what happened at the Visualize farm all those years ago. He was part of the CBI, so he had access to information, and indeed was part of the investigation when Bertram put him in charge of Serious Crimes after you'd been shot. He rubs me the wrong way, just like Stiles and Bertram—for me that's part of the whole willy factor. Not many people get under my skin, but Haffner does, as does everyone else on my list."

"The willy factor, eh?"

Jane grinned, and for the first time in hours, she was relieved to see his old humor returning. If Jane could smile, maybe everything would be all right.

"Yes, like I said."

"Well, what about the others on that list? Insights?"

"You know as much about the rest of them as I do. I'd be interested in your opinion, Lisbon."

She thought a moment. "I don't understand Reede Smith or Sheriff McCalister, except both of them were creepy—"

"Willy factor," Jane added.

"But Kirkland…I can see Kirkland as a suspect. He definitely gives me the willies. And Partridge…"

"Partridge fits every clue, from Rosalind Harker's description to the age of the kid who first drew the smiling face on the side of that red barn. He's in a goulish occupation with CBI access. Only trouble with him though, is everything about him is circumstantial; I have no proof. It's the same with all of them. It all comes down to my gut."

"Well, normally your gut is right."

"But how could I have met him, and not have _known_?" Jane said, with the first open display of frustration she'd seen in him since the county jail brought him the wrong Lorelei.

"There's no such thing as psychics, remember?" she said soothingly, and her hand moved to rest on his leg. "You're just a man with incredible skills of observation. So, apparently, is Red John. But he has eyes and ears everywhere, minions to carry out his dirty work. And you only have—"

"_You_, Lisbon. I have _you_. That makes me ten times stronger than him. With you, I think I can get him." He was looking her straight in the eye when he said it, and she knew in her heart that he was being sincere. His warm hand came to rest on top of hers, and she felt her cheeks flush.

"I'm glad you're sharing everything with me now," she said softly.

"Me too. I should have been more forthcoming with you long ago, but I was trying to protect you. Also, you might have noticed I'm very territorial where Red John in concerned."

She raised an eyebrow at that.

"But," he continued, undaunted by her amused reaction to his understatement, "I can't get him alone. I was a fool to think that I ever could. You're the only person I can trust, though. Even the rest of the team could have been corrupted somehow."

Lisbon looked at him in horror. "You don't think-?"

"No, not really," he said, trying to reassure her. "But look at my list, Lisbon. It shows you can't trust anyone, not a boss, not a friend, certainly not the FBI. And Red John seems privy to the very workings of my mind. Even someone as observant as me actually needs to be in contact with a suspect to be able to read him completely. So, you're right. Red John has spies. I'm sure we're being watched even now."

He felt Lisbon stiffen beside him. He tightened his grip on her hand. "Easy. He's not going to attack us in the middle of a public park with so many witnesses. It's not his style."

"But he says the rules have changed."

"Maybe, but he doesn't want to get caught, Lisbon. Not yet. He's not ready for the game to be over."

They were quiet a moment, and then Jane shifted on the bench to look at her, his hand now grasping hers.

"I have another theory; one you might appreciate."

"Oh?"

"What if all seven are part of one beast?"

Her eyes widened. "The seven-headed dragon in Revelation."

"Yes. Just so. You remember what Renfrew wrote on the bathroom wall in his own blood?"

"_He is man,_ or _he is mar_—that kept us both up for many nights, I'm sure."

Jane laughed without humor. "Yeah, you could say that. What if Renfrew was trying to tell me that Red John is _many_? Obviously he has had many followers, all those we have caught have been killed or killed themselves. That could be the _many. _But it could also mean Red John is one dragon with many heads, many who lead a cult, for example, like Visualize."

"Well, even if Red John has seven heads, there is only one heart in the beast."

"Yes. And by finding the heart, we can kill the dragon entire, seven heads and all. But that is just a theory, Lisbon, something that occurred to me."

When he looked at her now, deep emotion rose within him—gratitude and love for this woman who was willing to go to battle with him against this monster who had killed and manipulated so many, and still vowed to kill more. He smiled, and brought her hand to his lips.

Lisbon smiled a little in return, feeling closer to him in that moment than she ever had before. They were in this together completely, with no more secrets and lies between them. It was a heady feeling, and she felt for a minute like she was drunk with it. She blinked back sudden tears and squeezed his hand, remembering where they were. She had the uncanny feeling that, like he had suggested, they were being watched.

Suddenly, the park didn't seem all that safe and innocent anymore, and Lisbon abruptly stood. "Let's go," she said.

Still on the bench, Jane squinted up at her. "The willies?"

"Yeah," she replied, tossing her half-drunk coffee cup into a nearby trashcan.

He rose too, reluctant to leave there, where the sound of children's laughter was soothing, though bittersweet. His cup joined hers in the trash, and he held out his arm gallantly. She slipped her own arm through his and they walked companionably back toward HQ.

"I think you should stop calling it the _willy factor_," she said, a tinge of laughter in her voice. "It sounds-I don't know—very fifth grade."

Jane grinned. "How 'bout I only use that term with you-our little secret."

She patted his arm indulgently. "I think that's probably a good idea."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A week passed, and, with no new cases to occupy them, Jane and Lisbon had plenty of time to mull away the tense hours, contemplating their seven-headed dragon. They ate most meals together, discussing or arguing the merits of each name over Reuben sandwiches or Chinese take-out. Naturally, the team noticed, but no one had the temerity to ask them personally what was up. It seemed no coincidence that their sudden closeness occurred right after the last Red John murder, and they all had the distinct feeling they were being left out of the loop.

"They've included us in all their past schemes," said Rigsby one day, petulantly watching their boss and consultant speaking animatedly in her office with the door closed.

"Maybe they don't need us," Cho suggested, taking a bite of his snack bar sub.

"Maybe," said Rigsby doubtfully.

"They'll let us in when they're ready," said Van Pelt. But, truth be told, she was feeling a little hurt by their behavior. Did they not trust them anymore? Hadn't they proven their loyalty in the past?

"Well, whatever they're talking about, it's something big," said Rigsby. He picked up his second sandwich and turned morosely away from the direction of Lisbon's office.

"They're going on a lot of walks together," said Van Pelt. "Maybe there's something going on between them."

The men stopped chewing to stare at their female counterpart. Could she be right, and after all these years those two were finally putting truth to the office gossip?

"Nah," said Cho at last. "They're all business, at least right now."

"All that togetherness might change things, though," added Rigsby, glancing with a small smile at Van Pelt.

"I personally don't think that would be such a bad thing," said Van Pelt, grinning back at her lover. "I think they're perfect for each other."

Cho rolled his eyes, but said nothing more on the subject. It wasn't his business, though he secretly concurred with Van Pelt.

After lunch, Jane emerged from Lisbon's office and took his place on his couch for an afternoon nap.

"In case you all are wondering, nothing is going on," he announced from his prone position. "So you can tell whoever is holding the office pool on the subject to keep holding the money."

The team said nothing in reply, but sheepishly returned to their work. Jane closed his eyes, his wide smile lingering on his face until he slipped into a light sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Lisbon received a call from Bob Kirkland.

"Are you busy for lunch?" he asked.

Lisbon's panicked eyes flew to Jane, where he sat on her office couch.

_Kirkland! _She mouthed_._

Jane nodded, but his heart picked up speed as well. This was the first time either of them had spoken to one of the people on The List since hearing Lorelei read the names.

"Lunch?" Lisbon said aloud.

Jane nodded in encouragement. She had to face these people sometime.

"Uh, I actually had plans with Jane. Would you mind if he joined us?"

Jane shook his head violently.

"Sure, Teresa, the more the merrier. See you on the rooftop?"

"Yeah. Twelve o'clock. See you then."

Lisbon set down her phone.

"What did you do that for?" asked Jane in annoyance.

"I don't know. I need you there with me if I'm going to get through this. Dammit, I should have said no."

"Why? If Kirkland is Red John, he's not going to attack you in a public place. Not his style."

"Oh, that's comforting. Come with me for moral support, so I don't make a mistake."

"You think I want to eat lunch with a murderer?" he said wryly.

"You don't know for sure it's him anymore than I do. And now that you suspect him, you can start using your mental magic to figure it out for sure."

Jane sighed. "Fine. But don't even bother asking me to your poker night with Bertram."

"Oh, hell; that's tonight…I'm not going."

"You're going, all right. Now that you know these guys are suspects, you need to start using you CBI magic to figure it out for sure," he said, gently mocking her.

"Come with me to that too." She knew she was sounding paranoid, but she couldn't seem to help it.

"I'm not part of that inner circle, and I'm fairly certain no one wants to play poker with me. Besides, you can't live your life this way, Lisbon. Go about your usual business. Be a bit more vigilant, but don't let Red John control your life."

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Because _you've _always done that so well."

"I've never been one to sit around waiting for him to kill me, no. You know some of these people better than I do, so that puts you in the perfect position to observe them now with your cop's instincts in high gear. Red John might have changed the rules, but he's still playing a game. He's not going to show his hand over lunch, or, more literally, at a poker game."

Lisbon put her elbows on her desk, dropping her face into her hands in a rare show of trepidation.

Jane rose quietly from her couch and walked around her desk. He rested his hands on her shoulders and she jumped at his touch.

"Hey, easy, partner. You're stretched taught as a bow string." He gave her a few quick massaging squeezes, then patted her shoulders gently. It was very tempting to give her a deep, soothing rubdown, but he wasn't sure how she would respond to such a personal touch.

"You can do this, Teresa," he said, bending near her ear. Lisbon felt like he was a manager giving a prizefighter a pep talk.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm just starting to feel the stress of the situation. Red John is likely someone I know…I never even considered that possibility."

He moved his hands away from her, but the slow release of his hands felt almost like a caress. She shivered slightly.

"All seven of them have been people I've thought about over the years, people who somehow felt…off."

"Well, you're definitely one up on me then," she said dryly.

Jane left her side to sit in the chair opposite her desk. "Well, now you know about them. Don't start freaking out on me at this late date."

She smiled in spite of herself. "I'm not going to _freak out._ I can keep it together if you can. And might I say, you, who usually go a little freaky where Red John is concerned, have seemed unusually calm."

"It's the end game," he said with a shrug. "Reality of how close I am has set in, and I feel at peace, much like I did when I shot Timothy Carter."

She didn't point out how wrong he'd been about that situation, but her expression said it all.

"I'm not wrong this time, Lisbon. Red John has confirmed it."

"Which makes having lunch with Kirkland particularly terrifying."

Jane grinned. "Order some ice cream; ice cream makes everything better."

She shook her head. "Not even double fudge will make this any easier."

"Not even extra, toasted almonds?"

"Not even them."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Jane shook Bob Kirkland's hand, he waited for some telltale tingle, for some of those willies to seep in like they did every time he was around the Homeland Security agent.

"Patrick," greeted Kirkland.

"Bob," said Jane, though Jane had never before called him by his first name. It was a simple trick, really. People tended to focus more on you if you used their first name, and Jane wanted the man's complete attention.

"Teresa, good to see you, as always."

"Bob," nodded Lisbon. Jane could see she was having a difficult time keeping her face neutral, and she pretended not to see his proffered hand as she looked over his shoulder for an empty table.

She spotted one that had just been vacated, and when they got to it, there ensued an amusingly polite race to see which man could pull out Teresa's chair first. Jane won handily, and Kirkland smiled in defeat, before sitting down himself.

"What would you like?" Jane asked Lisbon.

"I'm not really hungry."

"Eat," said Jane softly, a hint of warning in his tone.

In the end, Lisbon ordered a shrimp salad and barely took a bite. Jane sat eating his grilled ham and cheese heartily, so cool and calm Lisbon wanted to throttle him. Bob ate his hamburger, as the conversation steered uncomfortably to the most recent Red John murder.

"Interesting he's going for someone from your past, Patrick."

"He likes to toy with me," replied Jane. "Play mind games. I think he's worried I'm close to figuring out who he is."

Kirkland's eyebrows shot up, and he set down his hamburger to dab at his lips with a paper napkin. "Oh, really? Do you have any new information you'd like to share with me?"

"Nothing new, really," said Jane honestly. "It's all there, in the files. I'm just looking at it in a different way."

"But you burned your copies of those files, if I recall."

Lisbon became even tenser, if that were possible. It really wasn't a part of Memory Lane she liked to revisit.

"They're all up here," said Jane, tapping his temple.

"I suppose when you've been studying for nigh on a decade, you would naturally commit them to memory. But how does Red John know you're closing in on him?"

Jane looked deeply into Kirkland's eyes a moment, hoping he could see inside the man's very soul, or, rather, searching to find whether he had one. All that greeted him were cold, shark-like eyes, unblinking and unfathomable.

"Because I got close to his right-hand girl," said Jane.

"You can't depend on anything Lorelei Martins told you," said Kirkland. "She was too devoted to her master to share any of his secrets. That's the way all of them have been—they're either killed or kill themselves before we can get anything meaningful out of them."

"Lorelei was different," Lisbon said.

Kirkland contemplated Lisbon a moment, sipping his iced tea.

"She certainly lasted longer than all of them. So what happened with her that made her so different, Patrick?"

"I had sex with her, Bob."

Lisbon nearly choked on her Diet Coke. It was so uncharacteristic for him to speak of such things, especially in such a blunt fashion. She knew that of course he was trying to get a rise out of Kirkland, but that didn't take away her surprise at his bold method.

"So I heard. All that intimacy didn't seem to pay off in the end, though, did it? She's dead, and Red John keeps killing."

So much for shaking up Kirkland.

"Yes, he does," said Jane, and he couldn't help the steel in his voice.

Nothing about this meeting had either weeded Kirkland out of the list or pinned him down definitively as Red John.

There followed a tense silence, during which Kirkland blithely finished his burger and Lisbon pushed away her half-eaten salad. Jane sat back and just observed.

"Well," said Kirkland, wiping his hands and checking his watch. "This has been nice, but I do have another appointment."

He rose abruptly, barely giving Jane a chance to rise and shake his hand.

"Teresa, hope to see you again very soon. You two have a good day."

They stared after him until the back of his Italian suit disappeared around that led to the elevator.

"That went well," said Teresa dryly. Her feeling of relief was incredible.

"It might have gone better had you said more than three words to the man."

"I did. I said…four."

"This is just what I've been talking about," he said. "You have to try to act normally around these suspects."

"No way," she said, her face suddenly going pale.

"Yes, Lisbon, there is a way—"

"No," she said, her voice dropping ominously. "Look who's here." She inclined her head toward the entrance of the bistro, where none other than Reede Smith, accompanied by Gabe Mancini, had arrived. They looked around for a table just as Lisbon's party had earlier, and Lisbon resisted the urge to slump down in her chair.

"I wonder what they're doing here," mused Jane.

"Who knows? Maybe Haffner's on his way too, along with Bertram, and hey, why doesn't Partridge—"

He reached over and put his hand over hers where she was clutching the arm of the chair as if her life depended on it.

"Pull yourself together," he said quietly, "This isn't like you."

"Hey, Teresa," said Mancini brightly, standing now near the empty table right beside them. "Jane," his old nemesis said coldly.

"Mancini," said Jane. Reede Smith said nothing, and Jane gazed at the large man thoughtfully.

"Hi, guys," said Lisbon, pleased her voice didn't shake. "We were just leaving." She stood, and Jane rose as well.

"Something I said?" Mancini asked in amusement.

"No. Lunch break's over, that's all. We've got to get back to work."

Jane stuck out a hand to keep Lisbon from running scared. "What are you two doing around the CBI? Lorelei Martins is dead, and Homeland Security is on the Red John case now."

"We have other cases besides Red John, nimrod," said Reede Smith disdainfully.

"Oh, I'm sure. Busy men like you," said Jane.

"Actually, we have a case that crossed jurisdictions with Narcotics," said Mancini. "Nothing to do with Serious Crimes this time. Our meeting's not till one-thirty, so we thought we'd grab a quick bite…"

"Oh," said Lisbon.

"Hey, see you tonight, Teresa?" asked Mancini hopefully.

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

"I invited Reede," he continued. "He hasn't played much poker, or so he says, so I thought I'd invite him to join us. He could be totally playing me, though."

"You never know about me," said Smith with an oily grin. "Just when you think you know how the game is played, someone can jump in and change the rules on you."

Jane and Lisbon both stiffened at the familiar topic, and a chill ran up her spine.

"Yeah," said Jane. "Which is why Lisbon asked me to join her tonight too. Hope you fellas don't mind."

Lisbon shot Jane a sidelong glance, but she was grateful he'd suddenly changed his mind.

"You think the others will be all right with that?" asked Lisbon.

"Sure," said Mancini tightly. "But how do we know he won't cheat at cards, like he does everything else?"

"I give you my solemn vow I won't," said Jane, putting his hand over his heart. His other hand, Lisbon noted, was behind his back, fingers crossed childishly. She let out a nervous laugh, and the others looked at her askance.

She shrugged. "Sorry. Just thought of a funny joke."

"Well you'll have to share it with us tonight. You know how the judge likes a good joke."

"Yeah. I'll do that. See you later."

"Good day, gentleman," said Jane.

"Bye," echoed the two FBI agents, and they took the empty table. Jane could have sworn he heard Smith say "suckers" under his breath.

It wasn't until they were in the elevator that Lisbon slumped against the wall in relief.

"Mother of God," she said. "I don't know how much more of these run-ins I can take."

"Hang in there, Lisbon," he said, pressing the second floor button.

"Thanks for coming with me to the poker game."

"I didn't like the way Smith was taunting us. It could be nothing, or we could be playing poker with Red John tonight."

"You're really not helping my nerves by saying that."

"I know," said Jane, meeting her eyes solemnly. "Mine neither."

**A/N: So, how's this for a start? Please log in and let us know. The next chapter belongs to waterbaby, and I know she has something lovely cooked up for the poker game. Thanks for reading. **


	2. Chapter 2

A/N Donna and I were absolutely thrilled with the response to the first chapter. Thank you to everyone who read it! I can only hope my instalment will prove as enjoyable as Donna's stellar effort.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to extend a special thank you to the Guest reviewer MartyMac, who has sent reviews to a number of my other stories (and Donna's) over the past few days, and who I could not reply to personally.

**Chapter 2**

For Lisbon, the rest of the day went by in a haze of paperwork and burgeoning anxiety. Even her office, her private sanctuary, suddenly felt like it was no longer safe. She'd never been so acutely aware that the walls were made of glass, and any of the fifty-odd agents that worked on this floor might be able to look in at any time. And that was without thinking of the lawyers, ADAs, PR personnel, suspects, family members and cleaning staff that passed through on a daily basis, and the Reede Smiths and Bob Kirklands of the world showing up unannounced whenever they felt like it, reminding her that she and Jane couldn't let their guards down for even one moment.

Tom Dixon, an agent from Narcotics, happened to glance her way at that moment, and smiled a little as their eyes met. She wished she could stop the way her insides felt as though they were contracting upon themselves with horror, even at such a benign gesture. Mancini and Smith were working with Narcotics right now, so if Red John was targeting her, and if Smith was Red John, and if he was looking to recruit some new minion, why not Dixon, whose desk was situated so advantageously close to her office?

Or even better, what if he was_ already_ working for Red John, and had been watching her for years secretly passing information to him, while she did paperwork and argued with Jane in blissful ignorance of her own impending doom? And if he had noticed the way she had reacted just now, he might know she was on to him.

There were a lot of _ifs_ in her train of thought at the moment. Nobody could be trusted, nothing was set in stone, and rules could be changed at the drop of a hat. Red John had already seen to that, after all.

The unsettling feeling of being watched, growing stronger with every moment since that talk with Jane in the park, saw her get out of her chair faster than she ever had before and pull the cord to snap the blinds shut. As the light from the bullpen was blocked out, casting her office into dimness, she let out a shuddering sigh and returned to her desk.

Jane was right. She couldn't keep living her life like this, jumping at shadows, seeing Red John in everyone she met, death around every corner. She wasn't like this. She was the one who always held it together while Jane was flipping out; the tough one. She shouldn't have to insist on him accompanying her to lunches with colleagues or to her weekly poker game just because she felt uneasy.

But she'd been so relieved when he'd said he'd go, even if just to have one person in the room that she wouldn't have to second-guess (at least when it came to Red John; she wouldn't put it past him still to try and hustle her at cards.) There was a reason she rarely bet high at the game, and kept her alcohol consumption to a general minimum; she'd never been good at bluffing. She'd certainly improved, under Jane's careful tutelage, but that didn't mean she could look a possible serial killer in the eye and calmly ask him if he wanted to call or raise.

She didn't know why she bothered to even try to keep secrets anymore; she was always likely to buckle under pressure, and it always came out in the end, no matter what she did.

Assuring the CBI and the FBI Red John was dead, even when Jane had explicitly told her that he wasn't.

Letting him fake her death, and sending two government agencies into disarray, ending with the murder of her boss and another Red John escape.

Sean Barlow calling her out on her feelings for Jane as casually as though he were talking about the weather, with her partner sitting right next to her. But that had always been a matter of time, even if she and Jane had both refused to acknowledge it, one day someone was going to say it.

Of course, it was a minor thing in comparison to all the other rude awakenings in store for them over that case, but it was still confirmation that she couldn't keep up a façade if her life depended on it, which at the moment, it kind of did.

The door suddenly swung open, and she somehow managed not to jump five feet in the air.

"No need to look so panicked, Lisbon," Jane said. "It's just me. What were you expecting, a guy with horns and a pitchfork?"

"Eh, I'm still not convinced the horns aren't in there somewhere, hidden by the curls," she said, gesturing towards him with a scowl.

He couldn't help but grin at that one. It made him happy to see that even though she was uncertain and scared to death, she still had a little bite left in her.

"So, this is the new strategy is it? Barricade yourself in your office until further notice, and have someone bring you coffee on an hourly basis?"

"Be fair." The idea sounded pretty good to her.

"Two hourly basis, then."

"Thank you."

He closed the door with a soft click and went to her couch, settling himself comfortably into the cushions.

"So, we still on for the poker game tonight?" he asked her, as she picked up a pen. Thinking of Mancini's hopeful face at lunch today, he couldn't resist adding: "I can think of at least one FBI agent who'll be disappointed if you don't go."

She ignored that. "I don't really have much choice now, do I?" she said. "I keep thinking about that thing Smith said. I know chances are it was just a weird coincidence, but still…"

"The willy factor?" he suggested.

"It's coming in loud and clear."

"I know," he said, bracingly. "But even if he or Bertram is Red John, they won't strike in front of a roomful of high-ranking law enforcement professionals."

"Unless they're all in on it," she said, the horrible thought anchoring itself into her mind like a parasite. " It's very possible that they've all been turned, one by one, and they only wait for the boss' command." She imagined them all rising up around the poker table, with their eyes all turning to snake-like slits and reaching out for her, to drag her down into the dark. She shuddered, and then shook her head violently to try and clear it. Obviously, she'd seen far too many movies.

Jane hated to see what this was doing her, hated the fear and mistrust in her eyes. If she were close enough, he would have taken her hand to offer her some small bit of comfort, but under the circumstances, offered her an encouraging sort of smile instead.

"You're lucky I'm the only one in the room," he said. "If anyone else heard you right now, they'd think you were getting paranoid."

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there isn't someone out to get you," she said, darkly. "You ought to know that better than anyone."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They travelled separately to the poker game. It would probably have made more sense if they'd gone together, saved on gasoline, but it was a point of pride for her to do it on her own. If Red John was coming for her, she could either cower and withdraw from her life like she was doing now, or face him with her head held high and her Glock at the ready.

She knew which scenario she preferred.

The fear, she knew, would not leave her, but no more would she allow it to simply consume her. And if not for herself, she'd do it for Jane. She couldn't afford to fall apart now when he needed her more than ever.

She arrived to find half of the group already assembled, including Jane, leaning against the bar, observing his companions with his probing gaze. He smiled gently at her in greeting, but before she could cross the room to join him, Mancini sidled up to her and pressed a drink into her hand.

"Turns out we're down to the last bottle of scotch," he said in a low voice.

"Thought I'd grab you a glass before Reede drinks it all."

She looked past him to see his fellow agent pouring himself a generous helping, under the disdainful eyes of the judge. She surmised that he was resenting the unexpected guest, not to mention his rather liberal approach to raiding his personal alcohol stores.

"Thanks Gabe," she said, and he flashed her a wide smile, apparently very pleased with himself at his forethought in securing her the alcoholic beverage of her choice.

If truth be told, she actually didn't care for scotch, and generally preferred tequila as a rule, and on top of that she hadn't intended on drinking tonight at all. But it would be rude not accept the gesture, and just one glass wouldn't hurt.

Over by the bar, Jane was smirking to himself with that familiar look of mischief about him that in her experience never boded well. She sipped her drink as she made her way over to him, finding herself appreciating the way his eyes seemed to twinkle a little in his amusement.

"What's so funny?" she demanded to know, without preamble.

"You know Mancini only gave you that drink so he'd have an excuse to talk to you, don't you?" he asked. "Next he'll be offering to carry your books to class for you."

"Oh, don't be so childish," she snapped. "He was just being friendly."

"Whatever you say," he said loftily, though the smirk stayed firmly in place. "Just remember to use protection when he invites you to meet him under the bleachers later."

The sound of her hand hitting flesh made the other occupants of the room turn toward them, and Jane howl with pain, rubbing his forearm.

"I'll do far worse if you don't shut your mouth," she hissed, under her breath. "We've got a job to do."

"Patience." He inspected the angry red mark now beginning to form with mild interest. "Just try and relax, and wait until all the players are present and correct, then we'll see how we go."

When Bertram, the last to arrive, finally strode in the door full of apologies about a meeting running overtime, everybody took their places at the table. Jane slid into a seat next to Lisbon, and sat still, gauging the tension, the anticipation in the air. Friendly game or not, this was a group of people who were unaccustomed to losing, and whether the sudden silence that fell was just in preparation for the impending competition or something more sinister, he couldn't say.

Bertram glanced around the table. "Before we start, I feel obliged to point out that Mr. Jane has a history of shall we say, extraordinarily good luck when it comes to poker. Is this going to be a problem?"

Lisbon couldn't hep but admire the older man's diplomacy, when most would have simply said that Jane was a habitual cheat. Obviously he was still feeling grateful for the masterclass in deception had Jane had given him in exchange for allowing Van Pelt to go away to the computer course earlier in the year. Of course, if he turned out to be Red John, further assistance in concealing his true thoughts was exactly what she didn't want him to receive.

She'd been alone in his office with him many times over the years. If he turned out to be the one, how could she not have known? Shouldn't she have been able to sense it somehow?

From agents, to lawyers and judges alike, every person in the room had had enough experience of Patrick Jane (either first-hand, or through the law enforcement rumour mill) to appreciate the validity of Bertram's point. They exchanged doubtful glances back and forth, muttering about it between them.

"If it helps," Jane said, as their companions continued their discussion, "I'll only play in every second hand, and I won't deal the cards." Even though he addressed them all with every arrear of sincerity, she saw the slight crinkling at the corner of his mouth that meant he was trying not to laugh. It was easy to guess why. Handicapped or not, he could still wipe the floor with all of them if he wanted to, and they both knew it.

Mancini knew it too, eyeing Jane suspiciously from his chair opposite them.

"I'm really looking forward to fleecing him for everything he's got," said Jane to her in an undertone, returning the FBI agent's contemptuous gaze.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Try and focus on what we actually came here to do," she said. "We're here for information, and _nothing else_." She tried to make the last two words sound as threatening as possible, but for the notice he took, she may as well have not bothered.

"Why doesn't Agent Lisbon deal the first hand?" Jane suggested affably to the table at large. "Nobody could ever question _her_ integrity, I'm sure."

"I don't know about that," said Bertram, handing over the deck of cards for Lisbon to shuffle. "She's certainly got a bit of a blind spot where you're concerned."

She froze, her pulse racing for some reason. "Excuse me, sir?"

"I'm just saying, most people who had such a troublesome partner as Patrick here probably would have kicked him to the curb by now," he said.

"Amen to that," muttered Smith to Mancini.

"Kicked him off a cliff, more like," Mancini whispered back.

"If nothing else," Bertram went on, "you are unfailingly persistent Agent Lisbon. One has to admire that."

He smiled at her in a way that made her skin crawl. She didn't want to be 'admired' by Bertram in any way, psychopathic-killer way, or otherwise. And since when did he go around complimenting her like this anyway? Normally at poker night he just confined himself to a polite hello, and some general inquiries about her team's current open cases. What had changed?

"Thank you, sir," she said, hoping to mask her discomfort, while shooting a panicked look at Jane beside her, who moved his hand slightly so it brushed against hers. The contact sent a warm, tingly sensation sweeping up her arm and all through her body.

"_Stay cool,"_ it seemed to say. _"I'm here."_

Under the table, her knee bumped casually against his.

"_I know."_

And she took the top card from the deck, and began to deal.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was the fourth hand of the evening. The pot was up to five hundred dollars, with only Jane and Mancini left in the running. The FBI agent's eyes were narrowed like a hawk's, his brow furrowed with concentration, and fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against the cards in his hand. Jane in comparison sat perfectly still, observing his opponent like a jungle cat waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

The table seemed to be holding its collective breath. No one spoke or even dared to move as Lisbon dealt the final card, the ace of clubs. Jane glanced down at it and then back at his hand, with a poker face that only Cho could have matched.

"You first, Gabe," he said, softly.

"Don't call me that," Mancini hissed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you prefer Gabriel?" Jane asked, innocently.

A snicker went around the table, as Mancini, gritting his teeth in annoyance, surveyed his hand, and then laid the cards on the table for all to see.

"Full house," he said, with a proud tilt of his chin. "Beat that."

Lisbon watched her partner closely as he inspected the cards. Even though she'd known him for ten long years, at times like this, even she didn't know what he was thinking. Those sea-green eyes she knew so well held no emotion whatsoever, not even the cheeky little twinkle they normally got when he was pulling a fast one on somebody.

What seemed like hours passed, as Jane sat, deep in thought, holding the table spellbound, all except for Smith, who yawned pointedly, and Mancini, who was fidgeting in his seat like a five year old at church.

"Jane," she prompted him, as he showed no signs of moving. "We're waiting."

He nodded once, and then to her astonishment, unceremoniously dropped the cards onto the green felt.

"I fold."

At first, Mancini didn't seem to believe his luck, clearly waiting for Jane to reveal he'd been bluffing. But he didn't, and with a crow of triumph, reached out with both hands to drag the chips toward him.

"You know Jane," he said, gleefully letting handfuls of chips cascade through his fingers, "the money isn't even the best part. Beating down your smarmy ass is the best prize of all."

"Congratulations Gabe," said Jane, inclining his head as the FBI agent continued to revel in his victory. "I think I'm ready for a break."

"Me too," said Mancini. "I want to savour this for as long as possible."

Chairs scraped backwards as the poker players all rose, stretching arms and legs and heading over to the bar, talking in wonderment about having witnessed what had long been viewed as impossible: the great Patrick Jane, beaten at cards.

Lisbon remained at the table, gathering up all the discarded cards and returning them to the pack. There was something about the situation that just didn't sit right with her. It wasn't often that she saw her partner lose at anything, particularly at games of skill and strategy, and on the rare occasion that he did, he never took it this well. If there was one thing he hated, it was to be outsmarted.

She couldn't resist taking a peek at Jane's losing hand as she picked it up, and surprise jolted through her like a lightning strike. He'd been holding a straight flush, which would have blown Mancini's full house out of the water. He'd won. But he'd still conceded defeat.

Why?

"How does it feel to be the loser for once, eh Jane?" asked Mancini, smugly, as they both stood at the bar, pouring drinks.

"I'm sure you don't have to ask anything about that, _Gabe_. I imagine you've spent most of your life being quite thoroughly second rate, am I right?"

For an instant, the agent's smile flickered, and then recovered. "Aw, you're just trying to save face because you can't handle the fact that just once, the deal didn't go your way."

"Didn't it?" Jane kept his face impassive as he poured an ice water for himself and a Diet Coke for Lisbon. She'd only drank that scotch out of politeness; he knew for a fact that she hated the stuff, and in the absence of coffee, she'd be craving a caffeine hit by now.

"How do you know I didn't just let you win?"

Mancini scoffed loudly. " Yeah right. Why would you do that?"

"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, making an ass of yourself twice in one night."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, with a laugh. "I've got five hundred bucks in my pocket, and I made you look like a fool to boot. Good night for me."

Jane shuffled just the tiniest bit closer, smiling at the way Mancini's nose crinkled in disgust, and said, in a lowered voice: "I threw the game. Even ask Lisbon if you don't believe me. You must know what a terrible liar she is."

In unison, the two men turned their heads to see the subject of their conversation still seated at the table with her phone out, texting frantically.

"So go on," Jane went on. "Use this newfound bravado and go over there and finally make a move on her. Nothing sexier than a guy who wins a game by default, and then gloats about it."

"You're an arrogant son of a bitch and she doesn't seem to mind you," snapped Mancini, and Jane could see the vein pulsing in his head again, which had preceded the CBI v. FBI melee at a crime scene months ago.

He smiled indulgently. "I'm a special case."

"You got that right," the other man snarled.

At the moment, Lisbon looked up and, spotting Jane, waved for him to come back over.

"Well, much as I'm enjoying watching your self-esteem crumble before my eyes, it appears my fair lady calls," said Jane, stepping back from Mancini and picking up the two tumblers. "Oh, and just as a note for your next poker night; if you're trying to soften her up with alcohol, give her tequila. She hates scotch. Better luck next time."

"I could beat you anytime," he heard Mancini snap, as he moved away. "At poker or anything else. Just try me."

"Maybe some other time," he tossed over his shoulder. "I'd hate to deprive you of what little dignity you've got left."

Mancini's muttered reply fell on deaf ears as he crossed the room back towards his partner.

Lisbon waited for Jane to reclaim his seat beside her and pass her the drink before turning to him with accusing eyes.

"You're up to something," she said, flatly.

"No, I'm not," he replied, purely for the joy of disagreeing with her, rather than due to having any hope of actually being believed.

"I saw your last hand. You had him. Why did you fold?"

He looked into her eyes, earnest, and filled with suspicion. The most expressive, achingly honest pair of eyes he'd ever come across in his extensive travels around the country.

"I didn't do it to mess with Mancini," he said. She raised a sceptical eyebrow, and he cheerfully amended. "OK, I didn't _only_ do it to mess with Mancini. But you know I can't help myself, he's just so-"

"Yes, I know," she interjected. "You make it your personal mission to make people who already despise you, hate you more."

"Not all people," he protested. "Just the ones who really deserve it."

"Whatever," she said, with a sigh. "So what was the other reason?"

He beckoned her closer, and she leaned into him, closing the distance between them to just a few inches. He could tell right away that she'd started using a different perfume, a warmer, spicier scent then her usual vanilla. It suited her; and it served to make her nearness an even more intoxicating experience than usual.

"I thought I could use it to try and help me ID Red John."

She flinched in surprise, and he wondered if the evening's proceedings might have actually caused her to forget about the serial killer, just for a little while. He hoped so. She'd had a stressful day, going against everything in her make-up to get involved with his deception. She'd needed the break.

"How?" she breathed.

"Red John loves to think that he's smarter than me," he said. "Remember on that DVD, he mocked me and my list, and then proceeded to trump me by naming all the seven suspects?"

"Shhh!" she hissed, glancing about the room. "Keep your voice down!"

"Don't worry, they're all still busy exclaiming over my heroic defeat. Relax."

A faint blush tinged her cheek. "Sorry."

"Perfectly understandable." He touched her arm, and she made a brave attempt at a smile. "Anyway, back to Red John. It's like he has this overwhelming need to best me. He can't be satisfied until he can prove to himself that he is superior to me. And he's not subtle about it. Every murder scene, the locations he chooses, the victims, even the way he positions their bodies; it's all his way of telling me that he's the one in control."

"Right," she said slowly. "But what does this have to do with poker?"

"Lisbon, do you remember why I dropped everything and ran off to Vegas last year?"

He regretted the analogy as soon as he said it. A stricken look appeared on her features and a shaft of pain flashed through her eyes. Wonderful and accepting of his faults though she was, he also knew that part of her would never fully forgive him for the unplanned 'sabbatical' he'd taken last year. He'd done a lot of regretful things during those six months but first and foremost, he knew that his sudden departure and his resolute silence had broken her heart, even if she'd never tell him so.

To her credit, her voice stayed very steady as she replied. "Of course I do. You thought that if you made it look like you'd quit, he'd seek you out."

"Yes."

"And also because you're a cold, heartless bastard who only thought about yourself, and didn't care what you might do to me." She added that as an afterthought.

"That too," he conceded. "My point, I admit I went about it the wrong way, but I still think that the premise holds. He wants me to crumble, Lisbon. He wants me to fail. Even just a little thing like watching me lose a hand of poker would be worth a lot to him."

"Why?"

"Because then he'll know that he's getting to me. He'll know that all his fiendish plans, and threats for the future-" here he paused, and he knew they were both thinking of the image of Lorelei on that DVD, reading Red John's message, a disciple to the end, "-are working. And believe me, it's the kind of thing he would get a kick out of."

"And two of the suspects are here tonight," said Lisbon, catching on. "You lost on purpose, to see how they'd react."

"Precisely." He smiled at her proudly.

"And?" she prompted excitedly, circling her hands.

"Nothing," he said, and she felt herself deflate with disappointment. "If either of them is _him_," he quickly said, as the judge passed by the table, "he played it pretty cool. But no matter, it was always a long shot, and if it is one of them, he'll think I'm starting to lose my touch, which might entice him to move into the open."

She shuddered. "You say that like it's a good thing," she said.

"The sooner we come face to face with him, the sooner it's over," he reasoned, as the rest of the group resumed their seats. Mancini, he noticed, was determinedly avoiding his eye, but throwing covert little glances at Lisbon every so often when he thought she wasn't looking.

"Jane, you're out of this hand," said Bertram, heartily, clearly very pleased to see the consultant taken down a peg. "Agent Mancini, would you like to deal?"

The evening culminated in a showdown between Smith and Bertram. Lisbon couldn't quite suppress a shudder as they stared one another down. One of those men could be hiding more than cards; an entire secret identity as California's most notorious serial killer. Or they could both be innocent, with no idea of what they were being accused of.

As usual, Jane seemed to know what she was thinking. Under the table, he reached for her hand, and entwined it with his. She gripped it back, drawing comfort from its warmth, and the steadiness of his pulse. It was a good thing they weren't alone in the room, or she might have been very tempted to fold herself into his arms, and get that warmth and comfort into all of her body.

In the end, Bertram came out as victor, successfully bluffing Smith into thinking he held a better hand that he actually did, and the poker group broke up for the night.

Bidding the others good night, Lisbon walked out of the room with Jane's hand resting at the small of her back, suddenly feeling tired to her bones. It was exhausting being constantly on the alert for possible double-cross, and she privately wondered how Jane had done it all these years. Just a couple of days in and she was already feeling the strain, and yet he'd managed to get through it all with an easy smile on his face (at least some of the time.)

She could feel Mancini's eyes on them as they left, but he didn't say anything to them, which she found a relief. She liked Mancini well enough as a person, and respected him as a professional colleague, but there just wasn't room inside her for feelings of any other kind; at least not while she remained so hopelessly devoted to Patrick Jane.

He walked her to her car, and waited until she'd climbed into the driver's seat and started the ignition.

"Well done," he told her. "I'm proud of you."

She made a face and blew out a long sigh. "I'm not designed for all this secrecy," she complained. "I felt like at any moment I was going to give the game away."

"It was never going to be easy," he said soothingly. "And I knew that if I brought you in on this, you were always going to struggle a little, you're too honest not to, but I wouldn't want anyone else watching my back."

She smiled. "Thank you for coming with me tonight," she said. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."

He chuckled. "My guess, you'd have been so afraid of saying the wrong thing, that you wouldn't have said a word to anybody the whole night."

"Probably," she agreed.

His gaze softened, and he reached through the open window and let his fingers graze her chin. "It'll all be worth it in the end," he said, softly. "You'll see."

She hoped so. "I'll see you tomorrow?" she asked.

"I'll be there."

As she pulled away from the curb, she felt her eyes being drawn to the rear-view mirror. He was still standing there, watching her go. She saw his reflection grow smaller and smaller in the moonlight, until finally she turned a corner and he vanished from her sight.

There was an odd sinking feeling in Jane stomach as he watched the taillights of his partner's car round the corner and disappear. They both knew that she was high up on Red John's hit list after the DVD, and no matter what they did, he would come for her if they didn't catch him first. The upshot of this was that every time they separated now, he was experiencing a sensation of wanting to be sick. If she wasn't beside him, how was he supposed to protect her? Not that there was a whole lot he could have done if Red John did turn up, but it gave him some small peace of mind to be able to look over at her and just reassure himself that she was still breathing.

The death of Eileen Barlow had been difficult enough. But even the mere thought of losing Lisbon was unbearable. She was more than a happy memory. She was the only one who could make him feel like the happy times in his life weren't totally over. She was the person upon whom his entire present and future depended. She was his second chance.

Red John, whichever head of the monster he turned out to be, must know that. She'd told him once that Raymond Haffner had asked her to quit the CBI and join his new private enterprise. While she'd been coy about the exact details of the conversation, he'd deduced that his name had probably come up at one point when she'd turned down the offer.

In short, along with her loyalty to the CBI and her satisfaction with her current work, he knew that she hadn't wanted to leave him.

God knew what he would have done if she had decided to go off and be a high-flying private detective. He probably wouldn't last a week at the CBI without her. And without his favourite person in the world by his side, he was sure any satisfaction he felt in crime solving would disappear very quickly.

Not to mention that if Haffner turned out to be the one, she'd be ripe for the killing whenever he saw fit, and she'd never see it coming.

Footsteps coming down the pavement behind him caused him to hurriedly slink back against the wall of a building until he was concealed in the shadows. Listening carefully, he then figured out that there were two people approaching.

The heavyset frame of Reede Smith, and the narrower Mancini came into view, silhouetted against the moonlight.

"Why are you in such a bad mood?" Smith asked his companion irritably. "You've been waiting for ages to get one up on Jane, and in front of Agent Lisbon no less. That's got to count for something."

"Like what?" Mancini snapped back. "She barely even glanced at me the whole night; she was so caught up with_ him_."

Smith's shrug was visible to Jane by the way it momentarily blotted out some of the moonlight.

"Gabe, you know Jane is no friend of mine, and I agree that Agent Lisbon is a great lady, and easy on the eye to boot, but this crush on her you've got, you gotta let it go, man. I think she made it pretty clear tonight that she's not in the same frame of mind as you are."

"If I could get her alone for just five minutes," fumed Mancini in frustration. "But it's like they're attached at the hip."

"Like I said, don't waste your time."

Jane slunk even further back against the wall as the two men passed by, not missing a beat, clearly unaware that he was even present.

Mancini sighed.

"She's selling herself short," he said. "She deserves so much better than that borderline sociopath. Why can't she see it?"

Smith's sigh was indicative of his tiring of the conversation; apparently this was well-trodden ground. Jane couldn't help getting a little pleasure in the mental picture of Mancini sitting behind a desk, pining for Lisbon. He'd always known the man was pathetic.

"Let it go," Smith repeated. "Everyone in the DOJ knows that she's in love with him. Hell, everyone _not_ in the DOJ probably knows it too. They couldn't be more damn obvious if they tried."

Their voices were fading now as they got further and further away from him, but the full effect of what he had just overhead was reaching Jane quite clearly.

First Lorelei. Then Sean Barlow, now Mancini, and possibly Red John himself had made comments about he and Lisbon's supposed feelings for each other. In fact, by the sounds of it, the only people _not_ talking about it…were they, themselves.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The silence in the car was unbearable. With the radio on, she couldn't concentrate properly on the road, but with it off, she was a slave to her own thoughts. It was well past eleven on a weeknight and the streets were all but deserted, streetlamps dotted like sunbursts against the inky sky.

Every now and then, a pair of headlights flared in the distance, as another car sped past her, but for the most part, she was alone on the road. As she pulled up at a stoplight, at an intersection on a darkened street, completely devoid of any life, she felt herself begin to shiver. She had never felt more vulnerable. If Red John happened to take her now, they might never find a trace of her. Any moment, anywhere, could be her last.

Of course, in her profession, that had always been true, but ever since the DVD that proverbial clock had been ticking for her just a little bit louder.

When the light turned green, she put her foot down and the car lurched forward, as though if she just drove fast enough away, she might be able to outrun the grim thoughts. Unfortunately, they chased after her just as persistently as Jane did when he wanted something.

Two small pricks of light in her rear-view mirror alerted her to the presence of another car behind her. The bright dots grew slowly in size as it gained on her until eventually the definitions of the car became quite visible in the reflected glow of the streetlights.

She switched on her left blinker. The car behind her did the same.

At the next corner, the same thing happened again. And again at the next. She hoped it was just an overactive imagination that made tension suddenly rush through her, her senses alert for danger. With another glance at the rear-view mirror, she executed another turn, and sure enough, moments later, the pursuing car trundled after her.

She wondered if it was just bad lighting and sheer chance that made the licence plate impossible to see, or if the driver had planned it so.

Her fingers began to tap on the steering wheel nervously, and she was glancing up at the mirror every few seconds, the dread growing more and more potent every time. Her cell phone was sitting in the drink holder in the middle of the console, and she was almost to the point of grabbing it and speed-dialling Jane right now. Her nerves were prickling, and she knew that if that was Red John or one of his associates behind that wheel, that the next few minutes could determine whether she lived or died.

She was glad she had her Glock stowed safely in the glove compartment. If things got dicey, it would simply be a matter of getting to it quickly. She was not going to die without putting up a fight. She wanted to live to see her brothers reconcile, to see Cho get promoted to head up his own unit, to see Van Pelt and Rigsby get married.

And as for Jane, there was a whole decade's worth of unfinished business to tie up, and, she realized with a jolt, she hadn't even said a proper goodbye.

She took a deep breath and held as she turned on the indicator once more for the final turn to reach her apartment.

The car didn't follow.

Shoulders sagging in relief, she nosed the car into her usual parking spot, shut off the engine and then buried her face in her hands.

One way or another, this Red John thing was going to kill her. Fear, constant fear was bleeding into every little part of her life, now even something as normal as driving home from a poker game was a game of life and death.

Her phone chirped merrily with an incoming text, making her jump in her seat. Reaching for it, she saw it was from Jane.

_Wanted to be sure you got home safe. Worried about you._

She briefly considered telling him about the car incident, but couldn't quite bring herself to. Even if it all just been a product of her paranoid mind, she had no doubt that Jane would be over here in an instant to see if she was all right. He was under so much pressure already, and she couldn't bear to add more. Even if it would have soothed her shaken nerves just to see him.

_All in one piece, _she texted back.

Immediately, a reply came zooming back, as though he'd been waiting with fingers poised over the buttons, to hear from her.

_Good. _Then, a few moments later. _Try and get some sleep._

She imagined him lying on his cot in the attic, staring at his Red John board for the billionth time, hoping to see some brilliant connection he might have missed. Or maybe he was drinking a cup of tea, or doing some more research on their seven-headed monster. In any case, she'd put good money on it that he had no intention of sleeping. Hypocrite.

_Only if you do._

This time, the reply came more slowly, as though he were contemplating his answer.

_Will do my best. Sleep well._

She got out of the car, fumbling with her many keys to try and find the one that fit the door. It had become a bit of a tradition for her to add him in to her nightly prayers since Vegas, asking God to guide him, and watch over him whenever she personally could not. But now, she prayed for both of them, just to survive this ordeal, and to not lose each other along the way.

What with her paranoia, and his insomnia and the constant threat of Red John, it seemed pretty obvious now that they needed all the help they could get.

**So that's my part done for now. The incomparable Donna is up next! (And if you haven't yet, I urge to check out her other collaborative effort with the equally talented starry19, entitled 'Boy Wonder.')**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks again for all your support and lovely reviews of this fic. Waterbaby and I continue to be amazed and flattered. This chapter takes a serious turn, and you should be advised that there are a couple of scenes with violent images. That being said, I hope you like it.

**Chapter 3**

Lisbon must have only been asleep a couple of hours when the call came in. They'd caught a case. After having to ask twice for the address, she disconnected from the SacPD's office and sat up in bed a moment, shaking. Nighttime calls were the worst, and never failed to rattle her when she was jarred out of a deep sleep. But this time the call had interrupted a nightmare, one where the car that seemed to be following her earlier had actually followed her to her apartment, and she'd confronted the masked figure in the parking lot, only to find that her gun was gone. The man had just pulled out a knife when she was awakened by her phone, so she supposed she should be grateful she didn't have to go through what Dream Lisbon was about to.

Still, she felt like a rookie as she arrived on the scene, shaking like it was her first case. She hadn't called Jane, figuring he needed his sleep, but Cho must have, for Jane's familiar Citroen was parked outside the home of the homicide victim. The Forensics van was there too, and Lisbon tensed. This was in Brett Partridge's jurisdiction. Yet another of Jane's Red John suspects had reared his creepy head.

She took a deep breath and entered the mansion, for once dreading seeing one of the CBI's own people more than the crime scene itself. She quickly reevaluated that position when she saw the body of the dead woman. There was blood everywhere on the bedroom floor; whoever had killed her had punctured her jugular with a screwdriver, and the walls were spattered with arterial spray.

Jane was already squatted down beside the body, mindful of the blood, doing his usual thing. He sensed her presence and looked up, giving her an encouraging nod. He followed her gaze to Brett Partridge, who was examining the blood on the wall, trying no doubt to deduce the position of the woman and her murderer at the time of her stabbing. Jane shook his head slightly and Lisbon avoided looking at Partridge completely after that, focusing on Cho and Rigsby instead.

"Any suspects?" she asked.

"They called us in because this is a City Councilman's wife. Looks like a crime of passion to me."

Jane rose to his feet. "I concur with Mr. Cho here. I'm sure the medical examiner will discover she's had intercourse recently, but it won't be with the husband. Fingerprints on the screwdriver, however, will likely be his."

Partridge turned away from the blood pattern with his usual skeptical expression, at least when in the presence of Jane.

"While I tend to agree with you, Mr. Jane, that this could well be the work of a jealous husband, you should really leave it to Forensics to state that categorically."

Jane directed his own expression of extreme annoyance back at Partridge.

"Of course I intend to let you do your job, Brett, but _my_ job is to point the way toward the best suspects as quickly as possible, avoiding all that unnecessary red tape. This case would seem pretty cut and dried, even to an amateur."

Partridge's face grew slightly red with anger and embarrassment. "It seems to me there is only one professional Forensic scientist in this room," he shot back tightly.

"You study blood spatters for a living. Your mother must be very proud," said Jane. He was smiling, but his tone was icy.

"Now you wait just a minute—" began Partridge lamely.

"Jane—" cautioned Lisbon. Her hand went up to lightly touch his forearm.

He gave the Forensics scientist a look of disgust, then brushed a dismissing hand toward him.

"Let's go, Lisbon," he said. "_My_ work here is done." He broke away from her touch and headed back out of the house.

Lisbon turned to Cho and Rigsby.

"Call Van Pelt to help you track down the woman's husband, and see if you can find any evidence here of a lover."

"Yes, Boss," her team said in unison.

Lisbon caught up with Jane outside. He was almost to his car.

"What the hell were you doing in there? I can't believe you were antagonizing that man!"

Jane shrugged. "That's the way I always behave around the creep. Why change now?"

"Still," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "What if…?"

Jane stopped in the middle of the brick path that led to the sidewalk. He reached for her hand, but rather than clasp it as he'd been doing more frequently lately, he paused, checking her pulse.

"Your heart is racing. And you're trembling like a leaf. Did you get any sleep?"

"Some," she hedged. "Did you?"

"That's not the point, here, Lisbon." His blue-green eyes swept over her from head to toe, assessing her in the light from the nearby streetlamp. "You, my dear, look like hell."

"Gee, thanks. And you look like—"

"Never mind that. Come take a ride with me."

He stepped toward the curb and opened the passenger side door of his car.

"We're right in the middle of a murder case, in case you didn't notice," she said sarcastically, but beneath their usual banter, Jane and Lisbon both felt how she was straining to keep it together.

"I already solved it, don't you remember? All that's left is the legwork, and I'm sure the rest of your fine team can handle that without you."

She glanced back at the house, then at Jane. She really didn't want to go back in there with Partridge, and the office didn't sound too inviting either. God knew who else she might run into there.

"Where are we going?"

"Just trust me for once and get in the car."

"And why should I trust-?" she began, but he closed the door on her muttering and went round to the driver's side.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They'd been driving an hour, and still Lisbon had no idea where they were heading. She'd learned after the third query not to ask anymore, so she settled back into her seat, trying to relax.

"Deep breaths," he said softly. "Inhale through your nose, hold it a few seconds, then exhale through your mouth." He demonstrated for her, his eyes still on the road.

She did what he suggested, feeling awkward at first, her breathing sounding overly loud in the quiet car. Soon, though, she began to relax, and he flipped on a classical music station, lowering the volume to barely audible levels. She actually dozed off for a few minutes.

When she awoke, she saw that they were driving northeast, into the lightening sky, and the scenery around them began changing from the lights of suburbia and early morning traffic, to a more arid, desert-like topography. She had seen the signs advertising Reno ahead, but they turned off the freeway about ten miles outside of the gambling hub. If she never saw a casino town again, that would be too soon, she thought ironically.

They drove down a gravel road for a few miles, past pastel colored adobe houses, windows still dark in the early morning, until the road suddenly ended with a sign that read, _Stop!_ _Bridge Out._

He parked and stopped, turning to look at her with a small smile.

"Come with me, Lisbon," he said.

"Where-?"

"Just come on. It'll be good for you."

"I hate the desert," she said stubbornly. "There better not be any rattlesnakes out here."

"You've got your gun, Annie Oakley," he said, glancing at the glove box where she'd stored her holster. She took his advice and retrieved it while Jane stepped out into the fresh, sage-scented air, taking cleansing breaths of his own with an eye toward the east.

She joined him, and they watched the yellows, pale pinks and dark blues to their east, harkening the sun's imminent arrival. After a few quiet moments, Jane took her hand, leading her to the right of the sign, down what looked to be a horse trail. When she nearly stepped in manure, her guess was confirmed, and she was doubly glad she was wearing her boots. She wrinkled her nose and he grinned, and they walked on until they reached a flat rock that overlooked the dry gulch the road had once spanned, facing the rising sun. He climbed atop the rock, nimble even in his suit and old brown shoes, then reached down to pull her up. They sat on the cool stone, their feet dangling three feet off the ground.

"How did you find this place?" she asked, feeling like she should whisper as the world slowly awoke around them.

"Some nights when I can't sleep, I just drive. I turned down this road on an impulse one time and ended up here, right about this time in the morning. I was awed by the beauty around me."

She felt honored he was sharing this with her, but she was too shy to tell him so.

"I thought you needed to get away, if only for a little while," he continued. "Also, I want you to try something while we're here."

She turned her head to look at him, but he was completely serious now, despite how relaxed and at ease he seemed in their new surroundings.

"What?" she asked suspiciously. She prayed it didn't involve more hiking or befriending desert animals. Nature wasn't exactly Lisbon's friend, city girl that she was.

"The reason I brought you here is because it is so isolated. There aren't any other people for miles in any direction, from what I can tell."

She looked at him sidelong. "Should I be worried? I've got my gun, you know."

Jane grinned. "The fact that you can still make jokes is a good sign, but quite honestly, Lisbon, I think you are on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and I don't think the usual relaxation methods are going to work with you."

"You're serious," she said, feeling offended by the suggestion.

"You're away from things now, so you are probably starting to relax a bit, but you still have all your fears to built up inside of you. You keep trying to hold it all in, and you'll explode, maybe somewhere where you don't want witnesses."

Lisbon wasn't one to lose control. The only time in recent years she'd been even close to having a meltdown was when she was falsely accused of murder. Jane had been with her, had helped her tremendously, both emotionally and psychologically. It was then that she really began to depend on him more on a personal level. She'd let him in-hell, had even _begged_ him to hypnotize her. Sure, he'd disappointed her since then, but that shared experience had really cemented their friendship, had made her feel that when the chips were down, he'd be there for her. Except for his six-month stint in Vegas, that had been true ever since.

"We could have stayed in Sacramento if you wanted to hypnotize me again," she said.

"I told you, traditional methods are not going to work this time. They would only be a temporary fix. I could give you a massage, teach you more deep breathing exercises, give you some guided visualization-they would help while you were in the moment, but the second you stopped, it would all come crashing back down on you, and the buildup of nerves and tension would begin all over again."

She stared straight ahead at the twinkling lights of Reno on the distant horizon, but found that she was hung up on his massage suggestion. Somehow, she didn't think that would relax her—just the opposite, in fact. Her face colored, and she tried to hide it with a witty rejoinder.

"Sorry, but I forgot to bring my yoga mat."

"Well, yoga works well too," he said, ignoring her sarcasm. "This would be the perfect place for a sun salutation." He indicated the beauty around him with a dramatic sweep of his hand.

She rolled her eyes. "So what do you propose, considering I could fall apart any moment?"

"You know, the first step in solving a problem is admitting you have one."

She certainly could have said a lot in reply to that trite expression, but she sighed, suddenly and intensely tired.

"Yes, I admit I've been having some...anxiety. But who could blame me, really? Suddenly it's like how Sean Barlow described you—seeing Red John around every corner. Only that isn't exactly an exaggeration, because he could very well be around any corner at headquarters, if he's one of your suspects. It's starting to wear on me a bit, I admit it."

"Good. You've successfully completed step one. Step two is a little more difficult."

"What is it?"

He paused a moment, trying to come up with the best way to broach his idea with her.

"Have you ever screamed into your pillow out of supreme frustration?"

"Yes," she replied simply, but a cloud passed over her elfin features. The last time she'd done it had been when Jane hadn't answered her hundredth text when he was in Las Vegas.

"It helped, didn't it?"

"Yeah, a little," she admitted.

"Well, what I suggest is just like that, only without the pillow."

She looked at him like he was crazy, and then she told him so. "You're out of your mind."

He grinned. "True. But trust me on this."

"So you want me to scream my lungs out and that's supposed to make me feel better?"

He nodded. "Yes. It's a release of that pressure, Lisbon. Some people feel better after a good cry, but with this kind of anxiety, sometimes a good scream is necessary to clear out the cobwebs."

"Since when are you a shrink?" she asked skeptically.

"I'm not, but believe me, it works."

"You've done it yourself?"

"Yes, and I've done it here. When you scream into your pillow, you're still holding back because you don't want anyone to hear you. Here, surrounded by nothing but the wonders of nature, it' the perfect place to let it all out…"

She looked at the man beside her, watching how the golden rays of the morning sun reached out to sparkle in his eyes, to burnish further his golden hair. Yes, she thought romantically, it _was_ a beautiful setting. Her blush returned, and she looked hastily back at the sunrise. Jane's eyes crinkled in amusement at having caught her staring at him. He'd certainly had more than his share of women's admiring gazes, but Lisbon's appraisal of him had been so innocent and pure, free from lust—okay, maybe there'd been a little of that—that he felt more flattered than he probably should have. Also, his heart shouldn't have squeezed like it had when her sun-lightened eyes had rested lovingly on his face. He cleared his throat.

"So, are you game, Lisbon?"

She looked startled a moment, as if she'd forgotten what they were talking about. He grinned knowingly, but kept his tone neutral. "For the screaming, Lisbon. Are you willing to try it?"

"Okay, but I'm sure I'll feel like an idiot."

"No need to feel self-conscious with me. I've been an idiot around you plenty of times."

She chuckled. "Well, that's certainly true."

"Okay then…on the count of three…one…two-"

"Wait!"

"Why? It's not like you're about to jump off a cliff; it's just a scream. You Catholic girls are so—"

The scream that came out of her mouth so close to his ear made him cringe in spite of himself. It was long and wrenching, but still, he knew she was holding part of herself back. When she'd run out of breath, she looked at him for approval.

"Good, Lisbon. Now stand up on this rock and belt it out even louder." He helped her to her feet while he remained seated beside her.

"Now, imagine that all your fear and anxiety is in a ball in your stomach, and the only way to expel it is to yell it out. Dig deep. You have to yell from deep inside yourself..." His hand came up to gently tap her flat stomach, and she trembled at his touch. He hastily withdrew it.

"Try again, Teresa," he encouraged softly.

And then she did.

At first, Lisbon had felt unbelievably stupid, yelling like a child having a tantrum. But when she stood there, looking out over the Great Basin Desert, at how the sunrise turned everything pink and gold, she felt an unexplained need welling from within her. She began to yell again, the sound tearing from her heart, from her gut, from her very soul. To her immense surprise, the crippling emotions she'd been bottling up within her pushed out of her mouth and into the cool morning air, compelling her to let go even more.

She screamed out her frustration that Red John seemed to be one step ahead of them. She yelled out her anger that someone she had worked with was probably a serial killer. She bellowed out her fear that he would strike again, and that it would likely be someone else whose death would hurt Jane. But along with all the crippling anxiety she expelled from her body, there was another frustration that she just could not seem to release—that she was in love with Patrick Jane, and no amount of shouting would set her free from that.

Sitting at her feet, Jane listened to Lisbon shout away her personal demons with envy. He knew this would help her, that she would once again become the calm, focused Lisbon that he loved. He had done the same thing over the years, and while the practice calmed him when he felt on the verge of a breakdown, his own demons were wrapped too tightly around his heart and mind, and he knew they wouldn't let go until Red John was no longer in the world.

When Lisbon's voice began to falter and grow hoarse from use, he looked up at her face, his heart clenching at the sight of the tears of release slipping down her lovely face. He stood then and immediately pulled her into his embrace.

"Okay," he whispered into her hair, "you're done."

He could feel the dampness of her cheek against his, and he held her more tightly, while her arms wound round his neck and she pressed her body as close as she could to his. She gave a few deep, shuddering sighs and he pulled away slightly to look at her. When she opened her green eyes, he smiled into them, and she smiled shyly back.

Before he could think of the danger, he pressed a light kiss on one wet cheek, the action stirring their blood rather than soothing her raw emotions. He felt her stiffen in his arms, but Jane, never one to quit when he was ahead, moved to her other cheek, his heart thundering in his chest. He became acutely aware of her small breasts pressed against him, of how his hands had settled so naturally at her trim waist. Acting now on pure instinct, he closed his eyes and placed a gentle kiss on her moist lips. She had only time to draw in a quick breath of surprise before his warm mouth left her, and she could almost convince herself that she had imagined the whole thing-except that her pulse was racing and she felt slightly off balance.

Numbly, she dropped her hands from his shoulders, and they both turned out of the embrace to stare sightlessly at the horizon. They sat down again, and she leaned her head tentatively against his shoulder, breathing deeply until her heart settled into its normal rhythm. His arm slipped companionably about her waist.

"Better?" he asked.

"Hmm," she replied, and he took that to mean yes.

"You know what I can't help thinking of at a time like this, Lisbon?"

He felt her smile against his arm before she said automatically: "Eggs?"

His answering grin split across his face, as bright and warm as the distant sun.

"And here _I _was supposed to be the psychic one."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After breakfast at one of those greasy spoons Jane loved so much, Lisbon slept all the way back home, only waking when a horn honked in the middle of downtown Sacramento. She looked around, disoriented, and Jane glanced her way with a smile.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Should I drop you at your apartment or the office?"

"I don't know," she said inside a yawn.

She reached for the phone in her blazer jacket pocket, noting in annoyance that the battery must have run down. But when she pressed the power button, she realized it had merely been turned off. Instantly, a dozen texts and missed call alerts popped up. She glared at Jane.

"Did you turn off my phone?"

He shrugged, obviously not feeling guilty in the least. "You needed to get completely away from things for awhile."

"Dammit, Jane," she said, and pressed the speed-dial key reserved for Cho.

They'd picked up the dead woman's husband at the airport. He'd been trying to flee the country. Cho was just about to question him.

"We'll be right there," said Lisbon, shooting Jane a meaningful glance.

"The office it is," Jane said with a reluctant sigh. "Pity. You look like you could use a long, hot bath."

Her anger melted away as she remembered what he'd done for her. "As tempting as that sounds, there are still people out there who are depending on me. I can't hide forever."

He reached over and took her hand, eyes still on the road. "You weren't hiding, Lisbon, you were…_regrouping_."

She squeezed his hand. "Thank you," she said, her throat still raspy from all the yelling.

He squeezed back. "You're welcome."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once the husband had confessed his crimes and was hauled off to await his first hearing, Jane found his way to the bullpen couch, settling in for a much-needed nap. Helping Lisbon had given him a warm, peaceful feeling, and for a few hours he slept like a baby.

"I wonder what _he_ wants," said Rigsby at his desk, his tone slightly derisive.

Jane stirred to wakefulness.

"Kirkland gives me the creeps," whispered Van Pelt.

_The willy factor strikes again,_ thought Jane.

He sat up then, his eyes going to one of his prime suspects as the man tapped on Lisbon's door. How would she react to this, now, after the morning's successful emotional discharge? It took everything in him not to run to her rescue. If Kirkland was Red John…but no, he reassured himself, trying to calm his pulse, she needed to be tested like this, to see if what they'd accomplished in the desert had really made a lasting difference.

When he heard her cry out, however, Jane was on his feet and running to her door faster than he could ever recall moving. Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt were right behind him. Never, as long as they had worked with Lisbon, had the trio ever heard her sound like that, not even when she was shot or accused of murder.

Her office door was open, and Teresa was sitting at her desk, her hands covering her face.

"What the hell did you do to her?" demanded Jane of Kirkland, who stood before Lisbon's desk, looking rather helpless. Jane went to Lisbon's side, dropping to his knees beside her and wrapping a shaking arm around her shoulders.

"Teresa?" he prompted softly, but she wasn't responding. This was plainly more than just an emotional setback.

"What's going on here?" said Cho, his voice taut with barely contained rage. The rest of the team muscled past Kirkland to stand around Lisbon's desk.

"Boss?" said Van Pelt, but Lisbon continued to hold her face in her hands.

Kirkland looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid I had to give Agent Lisbon some bad news," he said, and at the same time Jane noticed the picture lying face down at her feet. He reached down to pick it up. It was a picture of a dark-haired man, green eyes wide open in death, his throat cut so deeply he appeared almost decapitated. Jane was sure he didn't know the man, but he seemed somehow familiar. The edge of an even more familiar red symbol on the wall above the body confirmed what Jane had instantly surmised. Red John had done this. He handed the picture to Cho's waiting hand.

"Who is this?" Cho asked Kirkland, but Jane knew the answer before the man replied.

"It's James Lisbon, Agent Lisbon's younger brother," replied Kirkland.

"Get him out of here," Lisbon suddenly growled, her hands moving to reveal a pale, stricken face. "Get him the hell out of here."

"Again, I'm so sorry for your loss, Teresa," said Kirkland, but Cho and Rigsby were already propelling the Homeland Security agent out the door.

"Oh, my God," said Van Pelt, horror etched on her face. "Boss—"

Jane glanced at the redhead, nodding toward the door. "Give us a minute," he said, trying not to sound as shaken to the core as he felt.

"Let me know what I can do," said Van Pelt, before backing toward the door and closing it quietly behind her.

"Oh, Teresa," he said, and he gathered her into his arms for the second time that day. She clung to him, burying her face into his neck, but she made no sound. He closed his eyes tightly as he attempted to absorb her pain.

"James," she whispered, "Not James…"

Without thinking about it, he pulled her out of the chair and led her to the white couch he'd bought for her. She complied numbly, and he sat beside her where she fell once again against his chest. He held her close to his warmth, smoothing down her hair and kissing the top of her head. Still, she did not cry.

_This is my fault, _he thought in anguish.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered into her hair. "So very sorry."

Ten minutes passed before she sat up suddenly, pulling away from him.

"I—I need to go to him."

James had lived in southern Oregon, having moved there for his work some five years before. Lisbon had visited him on occasion. He'd been a bachelor, living alone, a fireman's hours making finding an understanding wife difficult. He was the middle brother of her three younger siblings, and Jane had never met him, though the way Lisbon spoke of him, he had given her the least trouble growing up. And now she was sentenced to a life of pain, anger, and self-loathing at the hand of Red John. Or maybe she'd loathe _him_ instead. He swallowed over the lump in his throat.

"Okay," he said hoarsely, "We'll all go."

He knew there was no use talking her out of it, even though he wished he could save her from having the last memory of her brother be a carved up horror. He watched in concern as she stood, dry-eyed and calm. He rose to stand beside her.

"I have to call Tommy and Kevin," she said. "They're in Chicago. Oh, God, this will kill them."

The only reason she was sounding so stoic, he knew, was because she was in a state of shock. Given her recent bout of nerves, he worried that when this finally sank in, she'd be a basket case. He'd have to watch her every minute now. She seemed to be holding her breath, and he was suddenly, intensely angry that Red John had ruined the progress they'd made that morning.

"Breathe," he said quietly, his hand on her arm.

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Was it Kirkland?" she asked, her eyes wide. "You saw him, saw his face. Was it him?"

Jane had to admit that once he saw the state Lisbon was in, he hadn't paid much attention to Bob Kirkland.

"I don't know."

A tentative knock came at the door. It was Rigsby.

"Boss, I'm really sorry, but what do you want us to do? Technically, it's still the FBI and Homeland Security's case, and they're heading for Oregon right now. Kirkland said we could ride along."

"No," she barked, and Rigsby cringed. "We're going in our own vehicles, in our own time. Tell Kirkland that. No, as a matter of fact, don't bother telling him a goddamn thing."

Jane squeezed her arm, willing her to calm down. She was angry now—rightly so—but they couldn't risk Rigsby knowing their suspicions of Kirkland.

"Teresa," he said firmly. Her first name seemed to flow more readily to his lips than the usual _Lisbon, _which was a good thing; it seemed to get through to her.

She took a breath. "Tell Cho and Van Pelt to saddle up. We leave within thirty minutes."

"Yes, Boss." He hesitated at the door, helpless, as people usually are when tragedy strikes close to home.

"Thanks, Rigsby," Jane answered for her, and Rigsby gratefully left them, now that their mission was suddenly clear.

"I'm not going to tell you that you don't have to do this."

"Good," she said briskly. Then she moved to her desk to find her gun, her badge, and the company SUV keys.

"This is what he meant, isn't it, about the rules changing? He's not holding back anymore, wants to hit you and the people you care about where they live."

"Yes," he replied sadly. "He wants to inflict as much pain as he can to those I love, hoping I will blame myself, that I will become so fearful and paranoid that I can't think clearly anymore." His words were a warning to both of them.

"Well, _I'm_ thinking clearly, and I'm going to kill that son-of-a-bitch, if it's the last thing I do."

Jane stared at her, knowing full well what she was feeling, and realizing that the feeling had never gone away for him, even after all these years.

"I'm right there with you," he said.

She tiptoed up to kiss his cheek, her lips moist and smooth.

"Thank you," she said.

She stood at the door, her head down, her hand on the doorknob, mentally preparing herself for what she must face. Then, after another deep breath, she opened the door and walked out into the hall.

He watched her go with great trepidation. She was keeping her emotions in check, seemed strong and steady as a rock in the face of such unspeakable horror. But he knew this was just a façade. When the shock wore off, she was in danger of having a breakdown that would rival the upheaval of the past week, tenfold. All he could do was make sure he was with there with her when it happened, and hope that he had the strength to get both of them to the other side in one piece.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! If you'd like to leave a review, be sure to log in so we can respond to you personally. We can't answer any questions or respond to your great suggestions unless you do.**

**A couple of personal notes. I just want to encourage you to take a chance on reading my other collaborative fic with starry19, "Boy Wonder." I know some of you might be hesitant to read it, because it doesn't have Lisbon in it. But I think you will be pleasantly surprised. This isn't a silly high school fic, or a smaltzy romance. We have tried to make it realistic, to make Angela into a person you would like and understand why Jane would have loved and married such a woman. I think the idea of a young Jane is fascinating too, and we have attempted to fill in some blanks about Jane's early life that will compel him in the current day. It takes nothing away from Jisbon; I think it only adds to our understanding of them now. So please, give it a try. I promise you won't be sorry.**

**Also, I'm sure you've heard about the terrible tragedy that has befallen my home state of Oklahoma. While I'm happy to report that all my friends and family in the area are fine, I ask that you keep everyone affected in your thoughts and prayers as they try to recover. If you want to help out, please give to the Red Cross.**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hello all! Thank you to everyone who left reviews to the last chapter I wrote. I am humbled and flattered and thrilled that you enjoyed it.

I know there was a bit of wait on this chapter for which I apologize, but I have work and university exams to worry about at the moment, which unfortunately have to take precedence.

As always, I own nothing recognisable.

**Chapter 4**

She let Cho drive.

Jane wasn't sure whether to take it as a good or bad thing when Lisbon handed the keys off to her second-in-command without any comment. On the one hand, this trip would be difficult enough for her without the added responsibility of driving, but on the other, she must be feeling more out of sorts than she was letting on, to relinquish her control so willingly.

She'd been so calm and collected as they were getting their gear together that it had alarmed him all the more. She couldn't keep internalizing forever. The rest of the team took their lead from her, and a horrible silence prevailed in the van as they drove.

Nobody knew what, if anything, was the right thing to say. And even though they weren't as knowledgeable about her fragile state right now as Jane was, they knew enough to sense that she was not in the mood for sympathy or well-intentioned sentiments.

Jane, for his part, sat quietly in the back seat. He wished there were some way he could erase the pain that she was experiencing. Losing a loved one to Red John was a fate he wouldn't wish on anybody, and even less so on his best friend in the world. She didn't deserve this. She deserved nothing but happiness and wonderful things; and instead she kept getting uncertainty and fear and so much pain. All because of him.

Sometimes he wondered what might have happened if someone else had been given the Red John case, if he'd turned up at the CBI with another name to ask for than Teresa Lisbon. How would things have been different? Would he still have ended up working for them or would another person have sent him away and left him to pursue the serial killer alone? Would he even still be alive right now? And where would she have been without him around to hold her back? She'd have Bertram's job at the very least, and most likely would be flying even higher. She could have been at the top of the CBI hierarchy, exactly where she should be.

She was the best thing that had happened to him since the murders, and yet, he suspected that he was the absolute worst thing that could have happened to her.

He blew out a long sigh. Brooding on thoughts of what might have been didn't change the fact that they were on the way to Oregon to view her brother's viciously murdered body. And it wouldn't help him figure out how to shield her from suffering the same fate. But he had to find to a way. He wasn't strong enough to go on without her.

About an hour out of Sacramento, Lisbon's cell phone rang. Jane saw Van Pelt, sitting on his left, start a little at the sudden noise, and Rigsby, who'd fallen into an uneasy doze, jerked awake. She fumbled for it, as Cho smoothly moved the car into the right hand lane.

"Lisbon," she answered, determinedly stoic, and Jane knew she was expecting the caller to be Kirkland, perhaps with an update on the case. She'd be loath to betray any more distress in front of the man today. But it was in a completely different voice, that she spoke again.

"Oh…Tommy."

Her brother hadn't picked up when she'd attempted to call him just before they left HQ, so she'd left a voicemail. Jane knew that she'd been both dreading and anticipating the return call in equal parts ever since.

"I know, I know," she said, heavily. "Just hold on a minute, will you please?" She covered the phone with the palm of her hand and turned to Cho.

"Cho, can we-?"

Immediately, Cho signalled right once more and pulled the car over to the side of the road. No sooner had they stopped moving then she was out the door, slamming it behind her. She put several feet between herself and the car before putting the phone to her ear again.

Tommy had been informed of what had happened. It seemed that Kirkland had already been in touch, and with Kevin too, but he'd refused to believe it until he'd spoken to her. Keeping her voice as steady as possible, she confirmed the terrible news, and listened, with a shattering heart, as her brother let out a groan full of shock and grief. Given the success of Jane's scream therapy this morning, part of her would have liked to fall to her knees and scream until her lungs gave out, but it was her duty as the eldest Lisbon sibling to be strong. She'd already failed one of her brothers; she wasn't about to fail the other two as well.

"How did this happen?" Tommy demanded to know. She could hear something very like regret in the question; and guessed that he was lamenting the fact that he'd never made up with James, and now, he never would. Part of her hoped that this would help him make some inroads in reconciling with Kevin, and that at least one good thing could come out of this.

She gave him the abridged version; the serial killer they'd been chasing for ten years, the countless near misses, and a very brief account of Jane's relationship to him. She omitted the part about herself also being a desirable target for Red John. There was more than enough bad news to be going on with.

"You and Kevin both need to watch your backs," she advised him. "Double check all the door and window locks, and don't go anywhere alone."

Tommy hadn't been listening. "You say that Jane has a history with this guy?" he asked. "And he's your partner, which puts you squarely in the firing line. You know what you're going to have to do, right?"

"What?"

"Ditch him," said Tommy, firmly. "I know he's your friend, Reese, but you've got a family to think about, and from what I know of Jane, he'll be more than capable of tracking the bastard down himself."

"I've stuck with him for ten years," she replied, stubbornly. "I'm not going to abandon him now."

Tommy let out a huff of exasperation. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to put yourself first for once," he said. "It might even do Jane some good to have to stand on his own two feet for a change."

She'd be lying if she said that the idea hadn't occurred to her over the years, in particular around the time of the Vegas stint. It would certainly be more practical for her to walk away, and yet she still hung in there, waiting for…well, these days she didn't even know what she was waiting for. She just knew that she couldn't give up.

Oh, but it would all be worth it just to see him truly free, and to have him finally live up to his very great potential. He'd been defined by Red John for so long; with the serial killer gone, he would finally have the chance to _be _somebody, to have a life again.

And maybe, if she were lucky, she'd get to go too.

"I can't do that to him," she said softly, glancing towards the car, where Jane sat with his head against the window, seeming bored.

"It shouldn't be about him," Tommy scoffed.

"I don't have to justify myself to you," she said, becoming annoyed with her brother's prying. "I know what I'm doing. I make my own choices."

"Then can you please help me understand why you're doing this?" he asked. "I know that collaring a serial killer will do big things for your career, but there are other less suicidal ways to do that."

"It's got nothing to do with that," she snapped. Any thoughts of furthering her career went out the window years ago. She knew how she must appear to the top brass, at Patrick Jane's beck and call, too emotionally involved to ever really be able to control him.

"Then what?"

She sighed. "Because I love him, Tommy."

A stunned silence greeted this declaration, and she even felt a little surprised herself. Admitting it to herself in the privacy of her own bed, while her brain conjured up alluring images of unending nights of passion was one thing. Admitting it out loud to someone else was quite another.

"I'm not asking you to like it," she went on, when nearly twenty seconds had passed without him saying anything. "And I don't expect you to understand, but that's the truth."

Another pause.

"Why him?" Tommy asked.

She'd asked herself that question many times over the years. Yes, he made her smile, and he was fun, and brilliant, and handsome, but none of those things truly justified how she had come to love him the way she did, beyond all reason or explanation. So she gave him the honest answer.

"I wish I knew."

Jane couldn't take his eyes off of her. Pacing back and forth at the side of the road, looking as though the entire weight of the world had descended on her. He could see the tense set of her shoulders even from this distance, knew her brow would be crinkling with the stress of it all, and the additional pressure of trying to keep it together for everybody else. She continued to pace, seemingly unable to hold still as she and Tommy hashed it out.

He wanted to go out there and tell her to stop, draw her into his body, and just hold her for as long as it took for all those buried emotions to come out, let her beat him to a pulp for dragging her into this mess, cry on his shoulder, or anything she wanted to release some of that pressure.

"Jane, are you sure it's Red John?" asked Rigsby, unexpectedly. "You haven't even seen the crime scene yet. Could just be a copycat."

He shook his head. "It's him."

"But how do you know?" Rigsby persisted.

"Do you know something that we don't?" Van Pelt chimed in. "You and Lisbon seem to have a lot of secrets lately. Don't you trust us?"

"Of course," he said, shortly. "But the whole situation is kind of delicate. I only felt I could bring one person in on it."

"That's crap," said Cho, from the front. "We've been in this for as long as you have, Jane. We've got just as much right to be involved as Lisbon."

"Not happening."

He wanted to tell them everything. About the DVD, the seven suspects, everything. That he'd only let Lisbon in on it all because Red John would have done it anyway. Did they think he liked playing Russian roulette with the most precious commodity in the world, her life?

"You're not the only one who's lost people to Red John, Jane," Rigsby pointed out, with a sidelong glance at Van Pelt. "We all have a score to settle with him."

"I know that."

He knew that they deserved better then to be shut out like he was currently doing. When this was all over, he resolved to approach each of them individually and personally thank them for everything they'd done for him over the years; but for now, keeping them out of the loop was for their own safety. He couldn't help thinking ahead to whatever endgame Red John might have in mind. One thing he could safely say was that it would involve Lisbon somehow. Putting her in danger was bad enough without the rest getting dragged into it too.

Sometimes in his darker moments, he even entertained the idea of it all ending in some kind of twisted choice scenario, with Red John weighing up Lisbon's life against one of theirs. He was afraid of what he might do in a situation like that. She'd never forgive him if he allowed one of them to die in her stead, but he knew deep down that there could only be one choice for him. The death of one of their team members would ache for many years to come, but there would be no recovery at all for him if he lost _her_.

Wrong as it might be to admit it, he would choose her over anyone else in the world, and he owed it to the team, as his colleagues and his friends, not to put himself in that position.

The passenger side door opened and Lisbon slid back into her seat. Jane quickly scanned her face for evidence of tears. None. Still repressing. It must all be building inside of her, just waiting to burst out. It was only a matter of time now.

"Are you OK, Boss?" Van Pelt ventured bravely.

"Let's go," was Lisbon's only answer. Cho turned the key in the ignition and they pulled out onto the highway.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon could feel the dread prickling as they turned onto James's street. FBI and DHS vehicles were parked along the entire length of it with squad cars from the local PD dotted here and there. The coroner's van was parked in the driveway of the modest apartment building her brother had called home. She had only ever been here a handful of times, and only for a few days at a time. She'd always planned to come back someday for an extended stay, whenever she took her next big vacation, but work had kept getting in the way, and that vacation had never quite ended up happening. Now it was too late.

Cho had some difficulty finding somewhere to park, but he eventually managed to squeeze them in between a DHS vehicle and a lamppost, and they all piled out. Lisbon set a brisk pace as they marched towards the swarm of cops, journalists and CSU personnel that always marked a Red John crime scene.

"Hey!"

A short, middle-aged man in a police uniform with black, wiry curls hailed them as they ducked under the crime scene tape. He seemed quite agitated as he strode toward them, cutting through the crowd.

"I have had it up to here with goddamn Feds," he growled, glowering around at them all. "First the FBI, then Homeland Security, and now who the hell are you people? The freaking CIA?"

"Close," said Lisbon, coolly. "CBI." She flashed her badge to the man, who continued to scowl.

"CBI?" the man repeated, with a snort of derision. "Seriously? Well no offence, sweetheart, but this ain't California, and you have no jurisdiction here. Next time, tell your bosses to call first, save you all a trip."

Refusing to be cowed, Lisbon kept her expression deliberately blank in the face of the man's disdain, but Jane could practically feel the waves of anger coming off her.

"This is a Red John crime scene," she said, as calmly as she could muster. "Red John belongs to my team. Now I am asking you _politely_ to step aside and let us pass."

Despite his small stature, the policeman did have a few inches on Lisbon in height, which obviously led him to believe he was in control of the situation as he looked down upon her. So many times, Jane had seen local cops make this mistake of underestimating her. On a regular day, he had no doubt that she could have flattened this guy in a heartbeat, but today, with all the stress and the emotion flying around, he genuinely feared for the man's safety. The rest of the team seemed to sense it too, as he saw Grace shooting a nervous look at Lisbon, and Cho's hand came to rest on his holster.

Clearly, the man himself had noticed nothing, as he continued to sneer down at her. "And I am asking you _politely_ to get the hell off my crime scene before I have you escorted away." He gestured toward a pair of uniforms loitering a few feet away.

Lisbon reacted before any of the others had a chance to. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she reached out and grabbed the policeman by the wrist, hard, so he yelped with pain.

"Boss…" cautioned Rigsby, in a low voice, glancing around to see if they were being watched.

"I didn't drive 300 miles from Sacramento to be denied access to my crime scene," Lisbon said, in a menacing whisper, ignoring Rigsby. "So we can make this hard, and spend a couple of hours causing more bad blood than there is already, or you can make it easy and get out of my way."

Despite obviously being in considerable pain, the local cop's glare stayed firmly in place. Jane could tell that he was old school style, used to dealing with things with actions rather than words, and if Lisbon had been a man, he'd have punched her by now. "Barden! Pearn!" he called out instead, with barely suppressed rage, and the two uniforms snapped to attention. "Please escort these people back across the tape."

With her free hand, Lisbon flashed her badge again at the two approaching men. "CBI. Walk away!" she barked. Barden and Pearn hesitated, clearly unsure of what to do.

"What, do you answer to her now?" their superior snapped, in disbelief. "I gave you a direct order, now do your jobs!"

"I'm real sorry about this, ma'am," said the man called Barden, as he reached Lisbon and tried to take her by the arm. "But orders are orders."

Cho immediately stepped between them. "Don't touch her," he said, fixing Barden with his penetrating stare. The towering figure of Rigsby loomed up behind her and Van Pelt stepped up to her left side; the three of them forming a veritable ring of protection around their boss. Tension was simmering in the air, and Jane could feel the situation becoming more volatile by the moment. He'd never seen Lisbon like this before, always the peacekeeper in tricky circumstances, and never the aggressor. The loss of her brother was already starting to affect her judgement, whether she realized it or not, and if she wasn't careful, she could get herself into serious trouble.

"Lisbon," he began, soothingly. "Do you think maybe you should-?"

"Stay out of this, Jane!"

"Is there a problem here?"

For the first (and he suspected, only) time in his life, Jane was glad to hear the voice of Robert Kirkland, who had just emerged from the apartment building and made a beeline for the impending scuffle.

"Of course not, Agent Kirkland." The policeman's voice immediately changed to become pleasant and professional; he clearly recognized Kirkland as a superior. "Just a small misunderstanding. The CBI were just offering us their assistance in the investigation, but we respectfully declined." He glowered at Lisbon some more, or perhaps it was more a grimace of pain, for she still hadn't let go of his arm.

"I apologize for not informing you, Chief McCombe, but Agent Lisbon and her team are here at my invitation," said Kirkland, smoothly. "They have the most experience with Red John and I thought they would prove beneficial to the investigation."

McCombe's eyes widened with surprise. "Lisbon?" he repeated, carefully scanning her features. "No relation to the victim, I presume?"

"My brother," she said, shortly, releasing his arm at last. Jane could see finger marks on it that he suspected would bruise in the coming days. Privately, he thought McCombe had gotten off easily; in her current state she was capable of doing much worse.

"My deepest sympathies," said McCombe, with such marked insincerity that Jane would have liked to punch him in the face himself. "But with all due respect Agent Lisbon, are you really fit to be a part of this investigation?" He appealed to Kirkland. "Surely this would qualify as conflict of interest?"

"Rest assured, Agent Lisbon is very well-practised in solving crimes in high pressure situations," said Kirkland, and Jane felt the DHS agent's eyes come to rest on him for a moment.

McCombe looked from Kirkland to Lisbon, to the apartment building and sighed. "All right," he said, resignedly. "You're the boss. But-" he cut his eyes back to Lisbon, "-I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your hands to yourself while you're here, Agent Lisbon. And again, I'm sorry for your loss."

"Asshole," said Rigsby under his breath, as Chief McCombe beckoned to his two men and went off to waylay several journalists who were attempting to sneak underneath the tape.

"Pretty good timing, eh Teresa?" said Kirkland, jocularly, when they'd gone. "That looked like it was about to get ugly." His lips curled into a twisty, sinister-looking smile, which made Jane have to work hard to repress a shudder.

Lisbon grunted in response, but Jane noticed her fingers twitching; Kirkland was making her nervous.

"I guess you can owe me one," Kirkland went on. Only fear of letting the DHS agent know they were onto him could have stopped Jane from stepping in at that point. Did he not remember where they were, why they were here? He'd been sympathetic enough back at the CBI, but now? They were standing mere feet away from where Lisbon's brother had been brutally murdered and he was acting as if they'd just run into each other at a bar after work.

Since the DVD, Jane had been keeping a room in his memory palace reserved as a scoreboard of sorts, ranking his seven suspects against each other in their likelihood of being Red John. So far, nobody had emerged yet as the clear frontrunner, but this incident caused him to add a few more points to the 'Kirkland' column. Surely, only a sadist could be so upbeat and uncaring in the midst of such a grim scene as this?

Lisbon made a small noise of non-commitment, and averted her eyes from Kirkland, which he presumably took to be a sign of her grief, for he didn't comment on it. Jane saw her look towards the shabby building and come to rest on a door, clearly marked with more yellow tape. James' apartment.

Kirkland noticed it too and immediately changed his attitude to a far more sombre one. Jane added another point. Sudden changes of mood; definitely a red flag.

"So," Kirkland said, gravely. "We've photographed the scene but nobody's touched anything. We were waiting for you to get here."

"Right," said Lisbon, pulling her eyes away from the door with difficulty. She took a long, slow breath in, squared her shoulders and looked him determinedly in the eye. "I'm ready."

Jane saw Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt exchange glances. "Boss, are you sure you want to do this?" asked Cho, presently. "Because we can-"

"I'm fine," she interrupted him, and strode off toward the building, Kirkland falling into step beside her.

"Jane." He felt Van Pelt take his arm as they followed in Lisbon and Kirkland's wake. "You have to talk to her. Convince her to let us do this for her. She might listen to you."

He let out a grim chuckle. "Sure she will."

"Please," Van Pelt begged. "Just try. You're the only one of us who can truly understand what she's about to find in there. We've all seen what it did to you; surely you don't want the same thing to happen to her too?"

They reached the flight of stairs that would take them up to the second floor. With her every step, Lisbon could feel her heart pounding a little louder. The last time she'd climbed these stairs she'd had her arms full with a suitcase and a duffel bag, yelling for her baby brother to come and help her before she dropped it all.

Several neighbours had stuck their heads over the railing at the noise before he'd emerged at the top of the stairs and ran down to her, divesting her of the suitcase, and hoisting it onto his shoulder as though it were full of feathers rather than clothes.

"Boy, Reese," he'd said, as the nosy neighbour's heads withdrew one by one. "You sure know how to make an entrance."

He'd been up for promotion at the firehouse; he'd told her last time they'd spoken. His old boss, Lieutenant Severide from Chicago, back when he'd been in training, had phoned him up to give his personal congratulations. He'd been so excited; so eager. He'd said he'd call her as soon as he'd had news. Now she'd never know.

He'd always wanted to be a fireman like their father, and even after they'd lost their mother and their lives became ruled by beatings and alcohol, he'd still held onto that dream.

"Lisbon?" Jane's voice broke into her memory of watching a seven-year old James chasing Tommy and Kevin around the yard brandishing a garden hose, shrieking at them to let him put out an imaginary fire.

"What?" she asked, a little more aggressively then she'd meant to.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Now?" she asked, irritably.

"Now. You guys go on ahead."

Kirkland cast them both a curious look, but proceeded up the staircase. Van Pelt, Cho and Rigsby followed, Grace exchanging a meaningful look with Jane as she passed him.

"You know the drill guys. Canvass neighbours, take photos for our records, everything we'd normally do at a Red John scene," she instructed them, voice wavering only slightly. "We'll be right up."

After their footsteps died away, Jane sat down on the staircase and gestured for her to join him. The late afternoon sun bathed the staircase in reddish light and cast his face half into shadow.

"I know I said I wasn't going to try and talk you out of this," he said. "And I'm not, but you need to be prepared for what you're letting yourself in for."

She folded her arms across her chest.

"Once you walk into that room, there's no going back," he said. "You'll never be able to unsee it; it'll be burned into your memory for the rest of your life. No matter where you go, or what you do, you'll never be able to escape it. You'll see it in every crime scene, you'll dream about it at night. It will haunt you, the same way it's haunted me."

"It's not the same as when it happened to you," she said, bracingly. "Remember, I've seen the photographs already." She swallowed. "I already know what I'm going to find."

"You and I both know that photos are not the same thing."

"Then what do you expect me to do?" she suddenly exploded, her voice echoing around the silent staircase. "Run away like a coward and pretend that if I didn't see it, it didn't happen? Because it did happen, Jane! My brother is dead. He's dead! And nothing is going to change that."

Just like in the desert (had that really only been this morning?) screaming her feelings out felt like a catharsis. Why was the world so damn unfair? Why did her brother have to pay the price for her bad judgement in falling for the man with the ultimate checkered past? And why, after all this, could she still not find it within herself to _stop_ loving him?

Before today, she'd never approved of Jane's goal of revenge, but it was like she was finally seeing clearly after years of blindness. Justice for James, safety for her family, a future with the man she loved; killing Red John could achieve them all.

And Red John himself could be here right now, standing in the room over the body of her brother; the man he'd killed.

Oh God, if it turned out to be Kirkland, and he'd been standing right beside her, within her reach, smiling at her as though he'd done her some huge favour, saying she 'owed him one.'

Well if he were the one, she'd pay him back all right. With a bullet to the skull.

Jane was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. She wondered how much he could guess about what she was thinking. He must go through this same debate with himself every day. How could he stand it?

"I have to go in there," she said. "I owe it to James."

"It's not your fault."

"I have to see him."

Jane sighed. He'd always known that it would be impossible to talk her out of this. She wouldn't have been the woman he fell in love with if she were any different. But he would have given anything to spare her the pain that she was going to go through. If he could have taken James' place, he would have done so gladly, and put an end to this madness once and for all.

She still wasn't crying. It was as though all the sadness that was inside was being pushed aside by anger and her own insistence of herself to be 'strong.' Just as he had broken down after the murders of his wife and daughter, now so was she, though in a different way. His whole life had seemed to go into shutdown, consuming him body and soul, while she was pushing ahead on autopilot, refusing to let herself feel anything at all.

He leaned toward her and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger for longer then they should have, as though it would somehow convey to her all he so desperately wanted to say.

Her fingers lightly traced the contours of his face. He hoped that meant, at least on some level, that she understood.

The room fell silent when she walked into it. She barely acknowledged the twelve people inside, crime scene techs, cops and the like as she crossed the threshold into her brother's small apartment. He didn't spend a lot of time here, she knew, and it was decorated to the bare minimum-a second-hand couch, and a cheap television. The only thing in here of any value was the set of weights he had stacked up in the corner. She knew they were top-of-the-line because she'd seen them at the gym, and she knew he spent a lot of his time off training to become stronger, faster, a better fire fighter.

His bedroom was towards the back of the apartment. She'd seen from the picture that Red John had chosen to attack him there; true to his MO, and she found herself being drawn irresistibly towards it. Kirkland emerged from the room just as she reached it; but to her great relief, he didn't say anything, just stepped aside to make way for her.

The smiley face greeted her first, leering at her from the back wall, seeming to take on a macabre life of its own, as though it's amusement was heightened still by her arrival. The sheets of the bed were tangled into disarray, and, cocooned between them all, her brother's body.

The cry of pain that flew from her was audible throughout the entire building as she examined every inch of her baby brother. She felt an arm settle around her shoulders, Jane's probably, but she shrugged it off immediately; she didn't want any comfort. There was no comfort for James where he was right now, so she shouldn't deserve to have it either.

She didn't even hear everybody else retreat from the room, didn't even notice she was alone as the sky outside turned from red to indigo and the shadows lengthened.

Jane had been right. Seeing it for real was so much worse than the photograph. Knowing if she reached out to touch him, he would never feel it; that he would never be aware that she was standing right beside him.

Night fell and the room was plunged into inky blackness. The first beams of moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating the smiley face on the wall like a spotlight, but yet she still couldn't draw her eyes from her brothers' face.

"She's been in there for almost an hour." Rigsby glanced from his watch to the closed door of James' bedroom. "The coroner's team are getting impatient."

"The hell with them," said Cho. "Let them wait."

"No, Rigsby's right," said Jane. "She can't stay in there forever."

"What do you think she's doing in there?" Van Pelt asked, cautiously.

"Grace, you'd better go and get her." Jane had several theories about what might be running through her mind in there, and none of them were good.

"Me?" she squeaked, in surprise. "But wouldn't it be better if you-?"

"I can't." If he walked back in there now, with the moonlight all around, just as it had been that night, he knew he would think of nothing but Angela and Charlotte, and as much as he wanted to always remember them, they were dead. Teresa was alive, and she needed him now, and she deserved his full attention.

Almost fearfully, Van Pelt turned the doorknob and let herself back into the room. After an interval of some minutes, she re-emerged with Lisbon in tow, pale, and unsteady on her feet, but otherwise as OK as could be expected.

"Come on," he said gently, as she walked towards him. "Let's get out of here."

She nodded, but not as though she had any conviction in what she did. Numbly, she followed him out of the room as the coroner's team went by, and closed the bedroom door behind them.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They decided to stay in Oregon for the night. It was too far to drive back to Sacramento, and that was without the fact of them all being emotionally overwrought and exhausted. Van Pelt booked them rooms at a Best Western, and wisely ignored Lisbon's snappish suggestion to send the bill to the DHS.

Even Rigsby's appetite had been somewhat curbed by the day's events, but still it was decided by a general consensus that they should at least try and eat something, leading them to a small diner near the motel.

The mood at the table was sombre; nobody seemed very hungry, and Rigsby put away his double beef burger with fries and a side of onion rings with less gusto than usual. Jane could only finish half of his eggs, and Lisbon picked at her club sandwich for all of two minutes before pushing it away completely.

She'd been very quiet since they'd left the crime scene, the jab at Homeland Security practically the only words he'd heard her speak. She got up from the table, excused herself and disappeared off in the direction of the ladies' room, though he'd bet his last pay check that that was not her intended destination.

Five minutes passed, then ten, and though he glanced towards the ladies' room so frequently that people at neighbouring tables were beginning to stare, he saw no sign of her returning. He knew that she wanted to be alone right now, but he also knew that solitude was the worst possible thing for her. When he'd let himself sink into his own misery, he'd at least had her to pull him out. He'd never dream of putting himself in the same league as Lisbon, but in lieu of finding another one of her, he would have to do.

As he'd expected, the restrooms were situated near a back exit to the diner. This opened on to a dimly lit alleyway where the employees of the diner took smoke breaks, as evidenced by the cigarette butts studding the ground. He followed the alley where it lead and found himself back in the parking lot, where he could see the SUV parked under a flickering neon sign.

A few feet away from the SUV stood a bench, and resting upon it, a familiar silhouette.

"Waiting for Godot?" he asked, and she turned her head toward him as he sat down beside her.

"What do you want, Jane?"

"Generally when bathroom trips take this long, it's a good idea to consult a doctor," he said.

She chuckled a little. "Well you seem to have all the answers, why can't I just ask you?

"I charge by the hour."

She looked away from him again, and up into the night sky. Her pale skin looked even paler in the moonlight, almost ethereal.

"So what do we do now?" she asked. "Do we just sit back and wait for whatever he has planned for us next, or do we walk up to every person on the list one by one, put a gun to his head and ask him whether or not he's Red John?"

He grinned. "What the plan lacks in subtlety, it makes up for in simplicity."

"Might get arrested though," she said.

"That is a possible side-effect, yes," he agreed.

"We could just stay here," she suggested. "Throw in our careers and lead nondescript lives in Oregon."

"Doing what, exactly?"

She shrugged. "You're good at talking people into things they don't really want; you'd probably make a killer door-to-door salesman. Women would be falling all over themselves to ply you with money."

"And what would you do?"

"I don't know, get work at the shooting range or something," she said, carelessly.

"It would be a fantastic ending to our story, don't you think? 'And Jane and Lisbon quit their jobs and lived mediocrely ever after.'"

She let out a little huff of laughter. "Well it beats the ending we're heading for at the moment," she pointed out.

"True."

He shuffled a little closer to her on the bench, and for the second time that day, slipped his arm around her shoulders. This time, she let him, laying her head on his shoulder. To a casual observer they would appear to be simply a couple in love without a care in the world.

Well, she thought, as she felt herself relax against him, they'd be half right.

"One day soon this will all be over," he said, his hand moving her hair, and stroking it gently over and over. "We'll get to have normal lives again. Or at least you will. I don't think I'm cut out for 'normal.'"

"No kidding," she said, and felt his body vibrate pleasantly with his chuckles.

She could happily stay here curled up against him forever; she only lamented that it was somewhere so public. The couch in her apartment, the bed in his attic would once have been perfect places to do something like this. Dark, and private, where they could be alone…totally alone. But now Red John was everywhere. Someone had already broken into Jane's attic, and there was no guarantee her apartment would be any safer. James had been at home with the doors locked, and look what had happened to him.

The thought of him brought a prickle to her eyes and a jolt of pain to her heart; so she buried her face in Jane's neck, breathing in his scent. He kissed the top of her head, and pulled her even closer to him.

Oh God, how would she survive it if something happened to him too? Yes, it was far likelier for her to be killed first, to draw out the torture for him a little more, but there was no guarantee. Maybe that would be her punishment, watching him die and never knowing what they could have been without Red John looming in their midst.

Just once, she wanted to be somewhere nobody could reach them, somewhere she could kiss him and hold him, and tell him she loved him without any fear of interruption or eavesdropping. But she wasn't so sure that such a place even existed anymore.

"We'll get through this," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "With a lot of hard work and a little luck."

"Don't say that," he said softly into her hair. "I think I used up all my luck the day I met you."

"Boss? Jane?"

The team had apparently finished eating.

"We're heading back to the motel now," Van Pelt called out.

Regretfully, Jane disentangled himself from Lisbon.

"Come on," he said. "Our chariot awaits."

She watched him criss-cross between the parked cars towards the SUV. She hated feeling so powerless, and unable to protect the people she loved. James had been the first casualty; who would be next?

There had to be something she could do, some way to get a little bit of control back over this impossible situation.

Red John had changed the rules. Maybe it was time for her to do the same.

**A/N: For anyone who is curious, yes James' old lieutenant Severide was named after the Chicago Fire character (another show I like, featuring one of my Australian countrymen putting on a fake American accent.) The opportunity was just too perfect to miss. **

**I really hope you liked this chapter. Donna's up next!**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks so much for all the great reviews of the last chapter. Waterbaby and I are so flattered by the attention. I was so inspired by her wonderful chapter, that I was able to quickly dash off the next…

**Chapter 5**

The next two days were spent preparing for James's funeral and going through the motions of another Red John murder investigation. It was very surreal for Lisbon, and she was oddly torn about where her focus should lie. She had tried valiantly to keep everything in her life in separate compartments, but now, with James's death, the walls had been lifted and everything—her family, her job, her feelings for Jane-was combining in a way she could never have fathomed in her worst nightmares.

But her team went to work, following any lead they could, but the sad truth was everyone knew it was unlikely at this late date that Red John would make a mistake. Still, this had become personal once more for them, since it was personal for Lisbon. She loved them for that, but part of her just wanted them to quit and go home and not waste their time on this. Another part wanted to gather them up and hide them away somewhere so no one could hurt them.

When Tommy and Kevin arrived from Chicago, she wasn't comforted at all by their presence. There was still the coldness between the two men that had been there for years, ever since Tommy had taken James's girlfriend from him and married her, and Kevin had taken James's side. But Tommy had divorced her, which further twisted the knife. At least they'd gotten the blessing of Annabeth from the failed union. Lisbon really didn't need to relive the drama of that time sixteen years ago, especially not now, but here it was again. At least they'd taken the same flight together, had rented one car. That was progress.

"Where's Annabeth?" she demanded of Tommy when he arrived at the hotel where the team was also staying.

"She's at home with her mother. I didn't want her going through any of this."

"Dammit, Tommy, I told you, you need to be careful."

She turned to her other brother. "What about your wife, Kevin? Why didn't she come?" Lisbon asked.

"Jeffery has the flu, Reese. Caroline didn't think they should come."

Lisbon took out her cell phone and immediately got in touch with her contacts on the Chicago police force. She briefly explained the situation, and gave her brothers' addresses.

"Yeah, I'd like them under surveillance until I can hire a private company. Thanks, Rick. I owe you. Yeah, I appreciate that."

Her brothers, looking jet lagged and rather shell shocked, stood in the lobby of the Best Western, staring at a sister that neither of them recognized. Gone was the warm, welcoming mother figure they remembered and had secretly longed for the dreadful moment they heard the news about James. Most of their lives, Teresa had been the one they turned to when they skinned their knees or screwed up, and in her place was a woman who had turned cold and business-like. They wanted their big sister, Reese, not Lisbon the CBI agent.

"I want to go to James's house," said Tommy the moment she ended her call.

"No. It's a crime scene," she said firmly. "Don't even think about it. When they've gathered all the evidence they can, you can go in, but not a moment before, you hear me?"

He crossed his arms in front of him belligerently, and Lisbon knew she'd have to get word to the local PD not to admit him into the house.

"Where's James?" asked Kevin forlornly.

Lisbon almost lost it then. Poor Kevin, the most quiet and sensitive of her little brothers, looked as lost and alone as he had as a little boy when the big kids wouldn't play with him. He'd inherited Lisbon's same diminutive height, and being the oldest of the three, he'd unfortunately borne the brunt of their father's abuse as a child. He'd been closest to James, up until five years ago when he'd moved from Chicago, so she knew this must be hitting him especially hard. She wanted to hug him, but she couldn't bring herself to do it, to give in to her sadness. She had to stay strong so she could find the man who killed their brother.

"The coroner still has him," she said, though she couldn't help her voice from softening a bit. "They'll release the body soon and we can plan the funeral."

"Should we take him home to Chicago?" Kevin asked.

"He hated it there," said Tommy.

It was at that moment that Jane strolled through the lobby from the direction of the free breakfast buffet. He paused at the sight of the three dark-haired Lisbon's, and he would have smiled at their similarities were he not equally torn up about their loss. It would have been rude not to stop, even for him, and pay his condolences. Besides, Lisbon seemed grateful for his unexpected presence.

"Tommy, you remember Jane."

Jane reached out his hand, but Tommy kept his arms crossed in front of him. _So, this would be the angry brother. _

"Tommy," Lisbon all but growled her disapproval. He reluctantly shook Jane's hand.

"Kevin, this is my partner, Patrick Jane."

Jane nodded and shook his hand as well. Kevin was like a male duplicate of Lisbon. He only stood a couple of inches taller than her, with the same green eyes, the same dimples, the same natural wave to his sable hair. They could easily have been mistaken for twins.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Jane said formally.

"Huh," said Tommy under his breath.

Except for an angry glance from Lisbon, she and Kevin ignored him.

"Tommy told me you're an expert on this Red John," said Kevin.

"Yes," Jane replied.

"He killed your wife and daughter."

"Yes, he did."

As with all victims' families, Jane really didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound trite or give them false hope. Had it been anyone besides Lisbon's brothers, he would have bluntly told them that they should pack it in and accept disappointment, that despite Jane's short list of suspects, there were no guarantees they would ever be able to pin anything on any one of them.

But Tommy could no longer stay silent.

"So, because Teresa's been working this case for you all these years, she made enemies with a serial killer, and he decided to take it out on her, is that about right?"

"Shut the hell up, Tommy," said Lisbon tightly. "We've already had this conversation."

"No, he's right, Lisbon. Let the man have his say."

Tommy moved to stand nearly nose-to-nose with Jane, and surprisingly, Jane let him. Normally, he hated anyone invading his personal space, could barely tolerate other people even touching him, save Lisbon. But he'd been where Tommy was, and every time they came across another Red John victim, Jane found himself back there again, devastated, angry, wanting answers no one could give him.

"You know what I think, Mr. Jane? I think you must have done something to piss this guy off. I mean, that's why he murdered your family, isn't it?"

Tommy had obviously been doing some research of his own, filling in the blanks his sister had purposefully left open.

Jane flinched, but couldn't very well deny it.

"Jesus Christ, Tommy," said Kevin.

"So why don't you take your so-called Red John expertise and shove it up your ass. You've done nothing to help find the bastard in ten years; what makes you think this time will be any different, except that maybe you'll end up getting my sister killed too."

"Tommy, that's enough!" Lisbon said, pushing her way between them. She shoved her brother violently away and he stumbled back a few steps before righting himself, breathing heavily with adrenalin. Their raised voices had attracted the attention of hotel security, and a uniformed guard walked purposefully toward them.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked sternly, hand on his sidearm.

"No officer," Lisbon said, flashing her badge. "A family matter. Tommy, I suggest you go outside and cool off."

"Well you'd better resolve this _family matter_ privately and quietly, or I'll have to ask you to leave the hotel."

"I apologize. It won't happen again," she said, and Kevin and Lisbon looked at each other in resignation. They'd been down this road before with Tommy, many times. For Jane's part, he had remained silent, not even escalating the situation as he was wont to do, and for that, Lisbon was deeply grateful. Still, he hadn't deserved Tommy's unfair accusations.

Seeing that the problem had apparently left the hotel, the security guard wandered back to the front desk, but he lingered to keep watch on the trio that remained.

"I'm sorry for my brother," said Kevin to Jane. "He can be a real asshole."

"He has every right to be angry," said Jane. "But I want you to know, the last thing in the world I wanted was for Red John to take out his vendetta against me on your family."

"I'm sure you know how we feel better than anyone, Mr. Jane."

"Call me Patrick."

Kevin nodded, then ran his hands tiredly through his tousled hair. "I'm tired, Reese. I'm going to go ahead and check into my room. Can we meet later for lunch?"

Lisbon smiled for the first time since her brothers had arrived, and finally, she gave in to her impulse and hugged Kevin briefly, but tightly. She had truly missed him.

"I'm glad you're here," she whispered to him.

He squeezed his eyes shut against tears, and nodded into her hair, then stepped out of her embrace.

"See you later, Patrick."

"Kevin."

"Holy shit," muttered Lisbon when Kevin had left. "I didn't need this right now."

"I should have just walked on by to the elevator," he said. "Sorry I made things worse."

"Don't be. Kevin's right; Tommy is a hard-headed asshole. He was unnecessarily cruel."

"But very close to the truth."

He sighed, focusing in on her drawn face and the dark circles beneath her eyes. He was certain she hadn't slept last night.

"Have you eaten?" he asked her.

"I had coffee. I'm not hungry."

He steered her toward the breakfast room. "At least have some toast and fruit or something. You'll wear yourself down, and you're going to need the energy to get through these next few days, trust me."

She didn't think she could eat a bite, but she felt she owed him a try, given how he'd handled her brothers.

"Okay. I'll try."

"That's my girl," he said, walking behind her, his hands on her shoulders a moment. He gave them a brief squeeze and moved to walk beside her. To his great surprise, she found his hand and gripped it tightly in hers.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

James's body was released to a local funeral home, (his cause of death easy to determine) and Lisbon and her brothers planned a simple graveside service. James's fellow firemen, however, had grander ideas for his funeral, which the Lisbon's reluctantly allowed. James had apparently made many friends during his five years in Oregon.

The fire department supplied an honor guard, and bunting to drape the coffin. Tommy, Kevin, Rigsby, Cho and two firemen served as pallbearers. Everyone from the station wore their dress uniforms, and the fire chief gave the eulogy. The ceremony ended with the mournful sound of bagpipes, while James's brothers cried silently. Jane stood closely between Grace and Lisbon, who both wore the black dresses Grace had bought for them from a nearby department store.

Lisbon didn't shed a tear, but stared blankly as the pomp went on around her. When Kirkland offered his condolences after the service, Lisbon showed her first emotion of the day, but only Jane felt it in her stiffened body.

The team and the Lisbon's dined somberly at a chain restaurant with a bar, where Tommy drank too much and Kevin tried valiantly to talk about the good times. Unfortunately, given the dysfunction of the Lisbon household, there were few of those, and the conversation dried up quickly; unfortunately, the alcohol did not. Cho and Rigsby helped Tommy into the CBI van along with Grace, while Kevin drove Lisbon and Jane in the rental. Jane had carefully counted Lisbon's drinks—they'd numbered five shots of tequila-but she didn't seem much affected by those either.

He was deeply worried about her, and he insisted on escorting her to her room to make sure she bypassed the hotel bar. Her hands shook slightly when she tried to swipe her key card, until Jane took it and opened her door for her. When she looked up at him with gratitude (along with something else) in her slightly glassy eyes, he knew he'd better leave her before something happened neither of them was ready for.

It would be so easy to take her to bed, as vulnerable and tipsy as she was, and that knowledge alone was a dangerous temptation for him. He still vividly remembered the brief taste of her lips that morning in the desert, and though he had been trying to comfort her then, that intimacy had lingered to heat his blood at inopportune moments…like this one.

"Are you gonna be okay?" he asked her, his feet planted firmly in the hallway. She ignored his question.

"Would you like to come in for awhile? The mini bar's stocked."

She tossed her gun and badge on the dresser and kicked off her flats. She was trying to be casual about her offer, but her pulse was pounding in her temples at the images she'd conjured in her mind. Her room had a king-sized bed, and she found she wanted desperately for Jane to take her there and make her feel something again, if only for a little while.

"I don't think that's a good idea," he replied seriously.

She walked back to the doorway where he stood, and he caught the scent of the same hotel soap he'd used that morning. It was oddly intimate. Almost against his will, his eyes roamed up and down her body.

Lisbon seldom wore dresses, and she looked so ironically beautiful in black. He found it difficult to keep his eyes off her legs, which were pleasantly toned and surprisingly tan. Jane had always been a leg man, and his own traitorous imagination flashed an image of Lisbon's wrapped around his waist. He swallowed and met her eyes sheepishly.

"Come on, Jane," she said, or, more accurately, the liquor said. "We're partners-friends, even. What's a nightcap between friends?"

"Teresa, you've had a little too much to drink, and you just had a crippling loss. This isn't a good idea," he repeated.

She sighed. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry. Go get some sleep; we have a long drive tomorrow."

He hesitated, trying to gauge what was the liquor and what was really Lisbon.

"I'm all right, really," she continued. "I just need some sleep too. I think the tequila will help with that." Her lips twisted into a wry grin.

"Okay," he relented, "Good night, Lisbon." He moved to step back so she could close the door, but then she said his name.

"Jane…have you ever wondered what it would be like, if you and I were to...?" She was leaning her head against the half-open door, and she blushed when she realized she'd spoken aloud her fondest wish.

"Yes," he said, and the admission made him feel a little drunk, himself. "But this is neither the time nor the place. It would be a terrible mistake you would probably regret the moment after it happened."

_Step away from the door, Jane. Right now, _said Jane's conscience.

"What if you kissed me? Just once. Then I promise I'll go to sleep."

He had to smile at her. Tipsy Lisbon was adorable and incredibly seductive.

"Please…I'm so tired of the numbness."

His smile faded, because he knew exactly how she felt. He'd cut himself in the mental hospital in order to feel something besides the cold darkness of ultimate despair. He didn't want her ever to reach that point.

He stepped over the threshold and pushed open the door, and she backed into her room, looking up at him with wide green eyes.

He'd intended to give her a light kiss on par with what they'd shared in the desert, but once his lips touched hers, he was powerless to hold back. They were far beyond teasing, and she opened her mouth to receive his seeking tongue. He didn't expect kissing her to be so instantly consuming, and his quest to make her feel again completely backfired on him. _He_ was the one feeling entirely too much, and it was hot and sweet and so powerful he didn't want to stop.

He backed her against the closet door, his hands in her hair as he tilted her head to deepen the kiss further, feeling almost dizzy to have her body pressed against his at last. When her small hands slid to his waistband, he knew in the back of his mind that this was too fast, she was too drunk, too grieved, and their first time together shouldn't be like this.

Her hands were at his belt now, and he knew he would have to be the one to put the brakes on or they'd be rolling around on that king-sized bed in about two minutes.

"Lisbon," he said on a gasp as he pulled his mouth away from hers. Her lips slid to his neck, and he closed his eyes as if he were in pain when he felt her hot breath in his ear.

"Yes, Patrick?"

He dropped his hands to stop her before she could undo his belt.

"Lisbon—_Teresa_…please…stop!"

"It's okay, Jane," she said, panting, her hands slipping from beneath his and brushing against the fullness in his pants. "I want this…I want _you_."

"No, you don't, trust me."

He stepped away from her, reaching for the door that had closed automatically while he'd kissed her.

"We're about to become a drunken cliché, and I guarantee you'd regret it in the morning, cliché as that also sounds. Now, you're going to take a hot shower and get into that bed—alone—and I'm going to go to my own room—alone—to take a much colder one."

"Jane—"

"You'll thank me for this, Lisbon, I promise you."

His last glimpse of her was one that would keep him awake most of the night, despite the cold shower. Her hair had been in disarray from his hands, her lips red and swollen from his kisses, and her eyes a deep forest green of longing. He practically ran down the hall to his room to escape her, fumbling with his own key card now to get inside to the safety of two locked doors between them.

He threw himself onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, willing his heart rate to slow and his arousal to lessen. This was ridiculous. Of all the inappropriate moments to kiss her, to be tempted to take her to bed, he had to pick the day she buried her brother, murdered by Red John. There was something seriously wrong with him—well, even more so than usual.

"Great job, Jane," he said sarcastically to the empty room.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could think of was how amazing her lips had felt beneath his, and how he'd give anything to let her unbuckle his belt right now.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane awoke to the ringing of his cell phone. It was Cho.

"Have you seen Lisbon?" he asked without preamble.

"Well, she's not here if that's what you're asking."

"I, uh, wasn't, but that's good to know. She's not answering her phone or her door. Her brothers already left for their early morning flight, and Kevin told me she didn't even say good-bye."

_Well, that wasn't like her at all,_ thought Jane ominously. Cho must have thought the same thing.

"I've got another call," said Jane. "Hold on; it might be her."

It was. "Lisbon? Should we put out an APB for you?"

"No, I slept for a couple hours, then I took a taxi to James's house. I took his car… I'm almost home."

"Dammit, you were in no condition to be driving."

"I have a lot of coffee in me, and I'm fine now. I just wanted to be alone for a little while."

He could understand it, but he didn't have to like it.

"This didn't have anything to do with last night, did it?"

"Last night? What did I do? I was a little hyped up…"

He grinned. So that was how she was going to play it, throwing his own words back in his face from the time he denied remembering his confession of love.

"Yeah, we both were."

They paused to remember the feverish kisses they'd shared. Yes, they'd definitely been hyped up.

"Okay, well I'll see you back in Sacramento in a few hours," she told him.

"You sure you're okay. You have your gun handy?"

"Yeah," but she wasn't offended by his caution. Until they caught Red John, her gun would be at her side twenty-four-seven.

"Good."

"Oh, and Jane. You were right to stop last night. I was a little drunk."

"Yes you were…To be continued," he said softly.

"Definitely. When this whole thing is over."

"Yes. Be careful, Lisbon."

"You too."

Jane remembered belatedly that Cho was still on the other line.

"That was Lisbon. She took her brother's car and drove it home. She's okay."

"You sure?"

"No," Jane admitted. "But that's what she said."

"We'll leave in thirty minutes." Cho was known for his punctuality and Jane could very well be left behind if he didn't get a move on. He jumped out of bed, anxious to get home and see for himself just how okay Lisbon really was.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon pulled into the parking lot of Visualize. She stared at the large stone building, imposing as a fortress, designed both to keep people out, as well as to keep them in. She shivered. It was a creepy place, and the New Age, cultish concepts of their religion clashed jarringly with hers.

She showed her badge at the reception desk so was able to bypass security. It also helped that she and Jane were well-known to Visualize, with a standing invitation from Bret Stiles himself, who happened to be suspect number one on Jane's list.

"I need to see Mr. Stiles," she said calmly.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the overly cheery college student.

"No, but he'll see me."

"One moment."

She made a couple of quick calls, and, as if by magic, another college aged kid appeared. "Jonathan will escort you to Mr. Stiles's office."

"Thanks."

Lisbon followed the young man, a strange calm overtaking her. After a quick knock on Stiles's door, Jonathan opened it for her, and Lisbon stepped inside the lion's den. The white haired old man rose, his bright blue eyes glinting merrily at her.

"Well, Agent Lisbon. What an unexpected pleasure. Is Mr. Jane with you, or the lovely Agent Van Pelt?"

"No. Just me."

"Hm. I must say I didn't think you'd be up to paying calls so soon after your recent tragedy. I am sorry for your loss."

Lisbon reached inside her jacket and pulled her Glock from her shoulder holster. She was across the large office and pointing the gun at Bret Stiles's head before either of them could blink.

"What's this?" the cult leader asked calmly. "Agent Lisbon, whatever you want, I assure you this isn't necessary."

She removed the safety with an audible _click._

"Oh, but I think it is. Just one question, Mr. Stiles. Did you murder my brother? Because if I don't believe your answer, I'm going to blow your goddamn head off."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane had had a bad feeling the entire trip home. Lisbon had sounded calm enough on the phone, but with losing her brother and making out with her long-time partner, he'd expected her to sound a little more…affected.

Rigsby and Grace, sitting together in the back seat of the SUV, surreptitiously held hands since the boss wasn't with them, but their eyes were on Jane in the passenger seat next to Cho. Jane was fidgeting. He rarely fidgeted. But he alternated drumming his fingers on the arm rest and shifting in his seat, and he'd been doing it for 200 miles.

He didn't want to stop to eat lunch, either, much to Rigbsy's dismay. Instead, they took a bathroom break and grabbed a convenience store sandwich when they stopped for gas.

"What are you so nervous about, Jane?" Rigsby finally broke down and asked. He was still annoyed that Jane and Lisbon were keeping secrets, and he had no doubt the root of Jane's stranger than normal behavior had to do with those secrets.

"I'm worried about Lisbon," he said.

"You think she'll do something rash?" asked Van Pelt.

"I don't know."

He'd been saying that a lot lately. Where was the confidence he used to have, that instinct that had made him such a good fake psychic? But maybe the problem was he feared he actually knew what she was up to and was afraid to admit it to himself, let alone to anyone else.

They were almost to Sacramento when Jane's phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, but he immediately thought it could be Lisbon in trouble.

"Hello."

"Patrick." The voice was hauntingly familiar.

"Bret?" he said, surprised. Then his heart pounded because he was talking to one of his suspects. "What can I do for you?"

"I just had an interesting visit from your Agent Lisbon."

A million thoughts ran through his mind. Was Bret Stiles holding her hostage somewhere? Had Lisbon done something incredibly risky, or stupid? Was she dead? And was this the way Lisbon felt about _him_ most of the time?

"Oh?" he said casually.

"Yes. Mostly I talked, which one tends to do with a gun pointed at one's head."

His heart skipped a beat.

"Where is she?"

"Oh, long gone, I imagine. She was spouting out these wild accusations, that I was Red John, that I had killed her brother. It was quite distressing, I must say. So I'm calling you as a friend, Patrick. Agent Lisbon seems in desperate need of some sort of intervention. We at Visualize would be happy to help with that—"

"No, we can help her. She's obviously going through a tough time right now. Thanks for calling."

He disconnected, his body trembling. _Oh, Lisbon, what have you done?_

"Well?" said Rigsby. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," said Jane. "Can you step on it Cho? I really would like to get home."

Cho pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the SUV. He turned to Jane, unusual anger flashing in his eyes.

"I'm not going another mile until you tell us what the hell is going on."

_Well_, thought Jane, _I could lie, obviously. Telling them about the list could put them in unnecessary danger, or, though it's unlikely, one of these three could be working for Red John. Either way, I'm not ready to take that risk right now._

He decided that the best option was to tell them a half-truth that would hopefully satisfy…for now.

He sighed heavily.

"Lisbon has it in her mind that Bret Stiles is Red John. She went to confront him today."

"What?" Van Pelt gasped.

"Yes. The Visualize connection to Red John seems undeniable. She must have decided to take matters into her own hands because Stiles just told me she threatened to kill him if he didn't fess up. She left him unharmed, so he must have convinced her she was wrong about him."

"What do you think?" asked Cho.

Jane shrugged. "I could see Stiles as Red John," he said simply.

"Yeah, me too," said Rigsby. "The guy is a controlling nut job with a hokey religion."

"I sort of like some of the things he says," said Van Pelt. "It's peaceful…"

"Not much peace surrounds that guy, given the times we've had to investigate him or his people for murder," countered Rigsby.

Cho, meantime, was staring at Jane, gauging his sincerity. He was one of the most astute interrogators Jane had ever seen, gifted with the ability to pull out the truth from suspects and to spot a lie a mile away. But everything Jane had just said was the truth. It just wasn't _all_ of the truth.

"Okay," he said after a few tense minutes. He signaled and looked out the window, then merged back on to the interstate.

"Why couldn't you have told us this?" asked Van Pelt.

"I don't think Lisbon would want you to know what she did. I'm sure she broke several laws today. But I understand what she's doing, and why she's doing it."

"You think the shock of her brother has pushed her round the bend?" asked Rigsby.

"I don't know," said Jane.

But that was another lie. He willed Cho's foot to be heavier, for the miles to pass quickly, because Jane knew with a sinking heart where Lisbon was likely heading next.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! And we love the great reviews, so please log in and let us know your thoughts. I know waterbaby will have her chapter as soon as she can, so we appreciate your patience. Sometimes life gets in the way of fanfiction, unfortunately.**

**And please follow me on Twitter for chapter alerts, and some fun "Mentalist" conversation! I'm Donnamour1969 there too!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Once again I find myself apologising to all you lovely people. I am sorry, sorry, sorry, but I do have something of an excuse. This past week has been highly unpleasant for me. Without going into details I will say that it has caused me great distress and substantial financial loss, in combination with a mild illness. So needless to say I have not really been in writing shape. However, things are on the up now, and the chapter has finally come into being.**

**Enjoy! **

**Chapter 6**

Jane kept a hand on his cell phone for the rest of the drive back, ready to grab it immediately, just in case she called. Even if Stiles had seemed fairly unruffled considering he'd just been threatened with a gun, he'd bet that Lisbon would not be the same. He could only hope that she hadn't already gone off in search of her next potential victim; it was fortunate that Stiles had been the first. Of the seven, he would be the least likely to turn her in; no doubt seeing potential to bring her into the fold of Visualize. The thought gave him a faint glimmer of hope.

She could have thrown caution to the winds completely and started with Bertram or Haffner, right in the heart of the CBI, but instead she'd picked Stiles. Well into his sixties, he'd have been by far the easiest to overpower if it had been necessary. Somewhere in her grief-stricken subconscious, there was still a bit of the level-headed Lisbon he knew and loved.

But still, the thought of her locked in a room with a man who could very well be his greatest enemy with a bevy of mindless followers at his command, chilled him like ice. She couldn't keep putting herself at risk like this. Even now, with her brother dead, and terror closing in from all sides, he suspected that she still didn't quite grasp just how much danger she was in.

With every day that passed, she grew more precious to him, and with every day he knew Red John was pulling the bowstring back a little more, ready to let the arrow fly at the opportune moment.

She wasn't at the office when they finally got there; the lamp was cold, the computer was off, and none of the stuff she'd taken to Oregon was back in place. She must have driven straight to Visualize without stopping. He wondered where she was now-hopefully at her apartment and not ruthlessly hunting down more Red John suspects.

He called her cell. No answer.

"Anything?" asked Cho as Jane hung up the phone with a sigh of frustration.

"Nothing."

He could feel tension building in his brain and his fingers. The longer they were separated, the more nervous he was becoming. He had to find her, and try and talk some sense into her before it was too late.

The bartender put down a tumbler of tequila in front of her, and she nodded her thanks. Lisbon was a stickler for following the rules, but as there was no protocol about what to do after threatening someone with death, she'd had to go with her gut on this one. And her gut had told her she needed a drink. She chose a tiny bar a little way off the beaten track. She'd stumbled on it by accident once after closing a case, and still went there from time to time when she felt like forgoing her usual haunts, like her apartment or the CBI building. After all, if Stiles decided to send the cavalry, she didn't want to make it too easy for them. But she had a strong feeling that he wouldn't do that. No doubt he would see this as a prime opportunity to recruit her into his little cult.

But was he Red John? She still didn't know. He'd borne her impromptu interrogation well enough, and answered all her questions, but then, there had never been any doubt that he was an accomplished liar, and it would have been a simple matter of telling her what he knew she wanted to hear. He made a living out of knowing the right words to say to get him out of trouble; why would he stop now?

She sipped her drink. Jane would've known. Perhaps she should have brought him with her. But then he'd have tried to stop her; no, going alone had been the right call.

On the barstool beside her, a man with dark hair and a badly-tailored suit (Jane would have keeled over at the sight of it) caught her eye, and smiled.

"Hey there," he said.

She shook her head wearily, and his face fell.

"Taken?" he asked, and she merely grunted in response, relieved when he turned away. It wasn't totally a lie. She may not be officially taken right now, but she most definitely was _not_ available. Already, she'd developed a taste for those searing kisses she'd experienced last night, and knew that from now on, she could never be satisfied with anything less.

Along with her career and her belief system, she could now add dating to the list of things in her life that Patrick Jane had managed to ruin for her without even trying.

xxxxxxxxxxx

What was the point, Jane wondered, of people having cell phones when they didn't bother to answer them?

He was sitting in the driver's seat of his car listening to the phone line ringing fruitlessly, hoping that she would pick up and start berating him for worrying so much, but yet again the call went to voicemail and the line went dead. He hoped very much that it was just a case of her ignoring him, and not getting herself into some nightmare situation where she _couldn'_t answer her phone. She was alone, she was grieving, and she was vulnerable. She was in no state to be matching wits with a highly intelligent serial killer with a grudge.

He tossed his cell onto the passenger seat and started the car. He would go to her apartment building and wait for her there; she'd have to come back eventually.

Out the window of CBI, the team watched as Jane's Citroen peeled out of the parking lot, and disappeared down the street.

"Do you think he'll ever tell us what's going on?" asked Grace. "You know, the _whole_ truth?"

Never would the team claim to be as freakishly observant as their consultant, but they knew him well enough to guess that there was a little more to this than he'd told them in the car back from Oregon. Things didn't add up. When it came to Patrick Jane, it was never enough to take things at face value, though frankly, Grace had been stunned that he'd even shared that much with them.

"Doubt it," said Cho.

"Jane and the boss have always had secrets," said Rigsby, turning away from the window. "It's kind of their thing."

That was true enough, but it didn't make the current situation any less frustrating.

"Do you think Stiles is Red John?" Van Pelt voiced the question that they all were thinking.

"It's possible," Rigsby said, considering. "He's creepy enough, and he already has a whole church full of brainwashed whack-jobs to do the dirty work for him."

"Jane doesn't seem convinced though," argued Grace.

He'd been too calm when they'd been discussing the Visualize leader, and she was sure that if he were closing in on anyone, they would know it. He'd always gotten a little crazy when Red John was involved, and when he finally managed to pinpoint the serial killer's identity, she suspected he would be even more so.

"Maybe he's just trying to keep us out of the loop," Rigsby suggested. "For some stupid noble reason."

"Or because he just doesn't trust us."

Cho gave Jane less credit than the other two did. As far as he could see, they had done everything in their power to show him they could be depended on just as much as Lisbon. They went along with his crazy schemes, put their careers and their lives in jeopardy just because he said so, and yet he still held back on them. He for one found that highly insulting. But even though there was no doubt that Jane could be a conniving, manipulative asshole, nevertheless, Lisbon adored him. Cho had seen the way she looked at him long before the office pool, noted the way she seemed to light up whenever he walked into her office at the end of a long day. So, despite his personal reservations, he had no choice but to watch the consultant's back as faithfully as he did Lisbon's. He feared what would happen if Jane ended up dead at the hands of Red John. Losing her brother had been tough enough; losing him too would destroy her.

"We'll find out when he's ready," Grace decided. "He owes it to us."

Predictably, Rigsby quickly agreed with his beloved, throwing her a loving look that Cho pointedly ignored. What with Jane and Lisbon dancing around each other in the world's slowest foreplay, and Rigsby and Grace exchanging heartfelt looks across the bullpen at every opportune moment, he felt as though he were surrounded by lovesick couples.

But he kept his opinions to himself. At least one of them would be able to keep their head in the game.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon was unsurprised to see Jane's distinctive blue car parked neatly in front of her apartment building when she arrived home. She took a moment to recognize how long it had been since she'd actually come home to find someone waiting for her who cared about her. Not since Greg, so it had been a long while.

He was leaning against her front door frame, tapping his fingers impatiently as she approached.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

He observed her for a moment, eyes scanning her body from head to toe. Once he'd satisfied himself that she was apparently unharmed, a look of deep relief appeared briefly on his face before he went back to eyeing her sternly with a strange mixture of affection and irritation, as though she were a misbehaving child. Kind of the way she was always looking at him.

"I could ask you the same question. Threaten anyone with your gun today, or was the phone call I received from Bret Stiles just a figment of my imagination?"

"He called you?"

She couldn't say she was really surprised at this information. Jane and Stiles had always had a fairly hostile relationship, hidden under a shroud of cordiality, and she knew that the older man wouldn't have been able to resist getting under Jane's skin with a tidbit like this.

"Be thankful it wasn't the cops. But he seems to think you would benefit more from a membership to Visualize. Who knows? A little casual brainwashing and he might be able to stomp the crazy right out of you."

She ignored this little jibe, fishing around in her bag for her house keys.

When she finally got the door unlocked, he followed her inside without invitation, and locked it behind them.

"Where have you been all day?" he wanted to know, trailing her into the kitchen where she turned on the kettle and got down two mugs from a cupboard. He handed her milk from the fridge and she proceeded to make tea for him, and a coffee for herself. "I've been calling you and calling you. And the guys have been asking questions."

"What did you tell them?"

"Just enough." He accepted the tea with a nod of thanks, and then sniffed the air. "You've been at a bar," he said. "You smell like cigarette smoke, and there's just a hint of alcohol on your breath."

She could tell that he was afraid this was going to become a recurring problem, turning to the bottle whenever things got tough. But she was not her father, and she would not let it control her like he had.

"I only had one," she said. "It wasn't like last night."

He was in mid-sip of his cup of tea but she still saw his shoulders tense up at the mention of last night.

"So this vigilante thing," he said, changing the subject. "Was it a spur-of-the-moment idea or a thought-out plan of attack?"

"A bit of both, I think," she said.

A tiny smile appeared on his face. "I'm supposed to be the impulsive one," he said. "And you're supposed to come running after me because you think I've done something crazy. You can't go changing everything up at this late stage. People will get confused."

She put the coffee cup down on the counter. "I had to do something," she said. "I realized that I can't get the things I want in my life until he's out of the picture." She let her eyes meet his. "And I don't want to wait forever."

She couldn't have made her meaning clearer if she'd jumped on him right then and there. The longing in her eyes said it all. Well, if he'd still been in any doubt of her feelings for him, it had been thoroughly quashed now. The idea made him feel just a little saddened. He'd never deserved to have her as a friend and he certainly did not deserve her love, but here she was, looking at him just like Angela used to all those years ago, and apparently not caring that she could do so much better.

Falling for her had always been inevitable, and he originally thought that his unrequited love would have been a nice garnish to his daily routine of self-loathing. She wasn't supposed to love him back.

"Promise me you won't do anything like this again," he said, breaking the loaded silence.

"Can't do that," she said, simply. "I'll do what it takes to get rid of the son of a bitch, and if that involves breaking a few rules, then so be it."

"Teresa, you don't want to do this," he said, sincerely. "Revenge is a hard road, and once you're on it there's no going back."

"I don't care," she said, viciously. "He killed my brother, Jane."

"And you could be next!" he snapped. "But hey, if you insist on going ahead with this crazy idea, why don't we just cut out the middleman and throw me straight back into an institution?"

She shook her head, picked up her coffee again, and rolled her eyes. "Always the showman. Don't over-exaggerate," she said.

She wondered when she'd become so blasé about the idea of her own death. Perhaps it was just another part of the revenge package, along with constant anger and paranoia.

Part of him wanted to reach out and shake her, while the other parts just wanted to pull her to him and hold her close. He didn't want her to live her life in fear, but at the same time, he didn't want her to underestimate their enemy, like she was currently doing. If nothing else, Red John must be acknowledged as a powerful opponent, and one with in-depth knowledge about the people in Jane's life he cared about. It was a very short list, and Teresa Lisbon was at the top of it.

"How does it feel to be in my position for once?" she asked. "Usually I'm the one that has to worry about you doing something stupid and impulsive, not the other way around."

"I don't know how you've done it all these years," he said, sincerely, and she smiled softly over the rim of her coffee cup.

"It hasn't been easy," she admitted.

"There must have been times that made you wonder if it was all worth it," he said.

"Frequently." She hesitantly met his eyes. "But I wouldn't take back a moment of it even if I could." She took another slow sip of coffee.

"Are you sure?"

She gave a rueful smile. "I think we've pretty much established by now that there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, Jane," she said. "I've thrown away my career for you, I've even faked my own death for you. And I'd do it again."

He could see it in her eyes. She meant every word.

He put the teacup down, stepped forward, and gathered her into his arms. She seemed to melt against him, as though all her bones and muscles had finally been given permission to not have to hold her upright anymore. He staggered a little as her body became dead weight. The exhaustion, the sorrow, the anger, it all seemed to come crashing onto her at the same time, and he backed up against the counter, as her head turned into the crook of his neck, and her arms held him tight. He looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter, close for a moment, and then open again. He had the distinct feeling that sheer stubbornness was probably the only reason she was even still standing. Still so strong, and so brave, even when life was at its lowest ebb.

"You need to sit," he said. He felt her head move slightly against his skin, and deduced that it had been her attempt at a headshake.

"No need," she protested, weakly. "'M fine." But she allowed him to guide her over to the couch, and nestled into his arms after they'd sat down without further argument.

He could tell she was trying to fight the urge to sleep; she kept moving around, and forcing her eyes open. But this was one fight that his angry little princess was not going to win. He'd make of sure of it.

"Just relax," he said softly. "Just concentrate on your breathing. Think of nothing else."

"I know what you're trying to do," she said, sleepily. "And I won't let you. I can't go to sleep, it's not safe."

This was what their lives had come to. The bravest woman he'd ever known, nervous about going to sleep in her own home. He hated himself for being the cause of that. If only he'd done what was right by her and left her the hell alone, before he got in too deep. She might be here now, contented and relaxed, wrapped in the arms of a worthier man than him.

He smiled gently down at her. "Sleep," he whispered. "I've got you."

"I can't."

"Trust me."

It only took a few minutes for her to obey, and before long, he was sitting in silence, pulling his fingers gently through her hair, listening to her slow deep breaths and watching her chest rise and fall in time.

He vowed that he would not sleep. What was another night of insomnia, compared to watching over the wonderful, precious woman in his arms? And so he sat in the darkness and held her and felt the soothing steadiness of her heart beat. She seemed to be attuned to his movements, even in sleep, for whenever he moved even slightly, she'd shift herself around to be closer to him and let out a contented sigh, as though there were nowhere else on earth she would rather be.

A few times, she murmured inaudible words under her breath, things that obviously distressed her, for she whimpered and fidgeted until he drew her back into him and whispered tender words of comfort to her. Somehow, the sound of his voice must have filtered into her dreams because between the hours of twelve and two, she mumbled his name over and over again, and he also caught a couple of "no's" and once, something that sounded like "Don't leave."

Well, she had nothing to fear on that account. He couldn't have left her now if he'd wanted to. She was everything to him.

Around three-thirty, she spoke again, this time her dead brother's name, followed by a soft moan of pain, and hearing it made him feel like he'd been stabbed. He knew she'd been bottling up her sadness about this, but the fact that she felt she could only let it out through her subconscious made him ache for her. He found himself wondering what other horrors ravaged her dreams at night, when nobody else could hear, and then marvelled at the way she could then get up the next day and carry on like everything was fine.

He kissed her forehead tenderly, as though it might convey some of these thoughts to his sleeping partner, and whether by chance or not, her fingers, which had been resting on his chest, curled up in response.

The hours stretched on, and even though he'd lost all feeling in his left arm long ago, he didn't dare move. Somewhere in the darkness outside, Red John was waiting for them, could even now be laying the finishing touches to whatever terrible plan he had in store for them. Even here, in her apartment with the door locked, he couldn't help but feel vulnerable.

xxxxxxxxxx

The sun slowly began to rise, casting the apartment with a soft, golden glow. As the light fell upon her face, she opened her eyes, turning her head this way and that in confusion. She flushed in embarrassment at the fact that she'd essentially been using him as a pillow for the entire night, and immediately began to wriggle herself up into a sitting position.

"Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have for a while," she said. Just for the pure pleasure of it, she closed her eyes once more and let herself savour the sun on her face, and his warm breath tickling her skin.

"I'm glad," he said. "And just for the record, on a scale of one to 'homicidal' how are you feeling this morning?"

She turned her head to look at him properly, and felt her heart melt as he smiled at her. By God, he was beautiful. And he was here with her.

"About a five," she said. "Reasonably content, but capable of inflicting mild to moderate injury if pushed."

He chuckled, and couldn't quite suppress the yawn that followed it.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked, noting the dark circles under his eyes.

"I had more important things to worry about," he said, and she felt his arms tighten around her shoulders. Apparently, _she_ was the more important thing. She'd never felt as though she were important to him before. A useful ally, and a reliable resource, yes, but never something to be protected, cherished. She buried her face into his arm so he wouldn't see her blush as she thought about that.

He must have been petrified that she'd sneak off in the night and carry on her vigilante mission to sacrifice yet another night's worth of sleep, just when he needed to be at the top of his game.

She'd always wondered what it would be like to wake up next to him. She'd had something of a picture in her mind, the two of them entwined together in bed (always her bed, and never his for some reason) after a night of non-stop lovemaking, with the sun trickling in through the window, gently bringing them back to wakefulness. She imagined herself planting kisses all over him to wake him, before he rolled her beneath him for a round of lazy morning sex. As a rule, she'd never been the daydreamy type, but that particular image of a blissful morning after had seemed to stick into her memory. She studied the curve of his lips and the contours of his face now, and found herself wanting to kiss him again so badly it made her insides ache with longing.

"You should have slept," she said instead, gently scolding. "You need your strength."

"You need yours more," he said, matter-of-factly. "I'm not the one who's lost someone I love this week."

The reminder of James put a damper on her sense of peace with the world. Even here, in the arms of the man she'd loved for ten years, there was no dulling the stab of pain at the thought of her brother.

"I'm sorry," he said, noticing her wince.

"It's OK," she said, heaving a deep sigh. "Not talking about it isn't going to make it any less real."

She felt a light pressure as he kissed her temple. "This should never have happened to you," he said, and then, lowering his voice, and whispering in her ear. "I am so very, very sorry."

Involuntarily, she felt herself inch a little closer to him.

"I am too. I don't know how you handled this alone."

The only reason she'd got through the last few days was because he'd been with her every step of the way, with support, and comfort and plans of action. Someone who could really understand what she was feeling knew what to say, and what to do. Even when she hadn't wanted him there. And ten years ago, he hadn't even had that much. In her eyes, it made it even more of a triumph for him to have been able to come back from it.

"I didn't handle it, really. I just sank into severe depression. I never really dealt with it."

"But you pulled yourself out of it," she reminded him. "In the end."

"Nothing motivates like blind hatred," he said, bitterly.

"Believe me, I've got a bit of that right now."

He could understand that. He could understand her feeling angry and sad and cheated and betrayed or all of them at once. It was all part of the healing process after all. Unfortunately, he had just not been able to move past that stage so far. But she couldn't live her life consumed by hatred and anger like he did, and if he could have just one thing, it would be for her to come out of this without the jaded view of the world he now held. Her unerring faith in people, and almost superhuman abilities to forgive, no matter what crime had been done her, was one of her very best traits. It was what made her a great boss, a great cop and the best friend anyone could ever have. He would hate for Red John to take that away, whether by killing her, or simply crushing her spirit.

And he wasn't prepared to lose her either way.

"I'm not sure you've ever hated anybody," he said, smiling fondly down at her. "Other than me, of course." She'd certainly told him so enough over the years.

"Tommy Volker," she said, and they both suppressed a shudder at the thought of the egomaniacal billionaire they'd put away a few months ago.

"Fair enough."

"But I could never hate anyone as much as you," she went on, with a smile, and giving him a playful shove. "Forcing yourself into my life, causing trouble on my cases, messing up my career. I ought to have shot you years ago."

"But you haven't yet."

"Consider yourself lucky," she teased, and stood up from the lounge, stretching her arms and legs out. "I'm going to take a shower."

Lucky. Well that was a matter of opinion.

He watched her pad across the room away from him, noticing her clothes were rumpled from her night on the couch. She seemed to have a kink in her neck too; from the way she let out a little hiss of pain and rubbed it with her hand. He swallowed the urge to offer to work it out for her, because he knew where that would lead.

He was tired of looking, but never touching. Tired of loving her from a distance, when he'd much rather be loving her every which way he could. He made a vow to himself that the moment all of this was over, all bets were off. They were both taking at least a month off work and they wouldn't be getting out of bed for as long as it took for him to explore every inch of her, and discover all the things that 'flipped her switch,' as it were. He had a feeling that turtleneck sweaters were just the tip of the iceberg.

As the bathroom door closed behind her he found himself wondering idly she'd mind if he joined her in that shower.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Even though she hadn't really expected him to, she couldn't quite help feeling a touch disappointed that he hadn't followed her in. In her fantasies, he'd press her up against the wall with his body, kiss her neck; she'd lose herself in the double pleasures of the hot water and his eager touch, and he'd bring her to ecstasy over and over again until the water started to run cold. At which point they'd simply move to the bedroom. Or the bathroom floor.

If he made love even half as well as he read minds… oh, the idea was so delicious she closed her eyes and let herself picture it as she reached for the shampoo. The bottle was close to empty, so she shook it in annoyance to release the last of the product. A vaguely lemonish smell reached her nose, and she remembered that this bottle had been a Christmas gift from James. In previous years, he'd always presented her with a gift certificate on Christmas and birthdays, but last year, she'd teased him about always taking the easy way out and being too lazy to buy her a proper gift. In response, he'd given her a large gift basket full of shower gels and soaps, which seven months later, she was still working her way through. But at least he'd tried.

To her dismay, the sizzling images of herself and Jane surrounded by swirling steam were replaced by a memory of James' triumphant face as he'd dumped the oversized basket into her arms.

"Try and call me lazy _this_ time, Reese," he'd said.

It occurred to her now that she'd never properly thanked him for going to such an effort, rolling her eyes and making some witty rejoinder as she'd shoved the basket into the bathroom cupboard, and she couldn't help but hate herself a little. She should have been more appreciative, but she'd been so busy worrying about Jane spending yet another holidays alone, her mind hadn't been fully on the job.

She'd never even told her brother about her feelings for Jane, she realized. He'd come up in conversation on the phone a lot, and James had even accused her of having a crush on her consultant once or twice, but she'd never admitted to him how deep the attachment was. Perhaps because she'd still been having trouble admitting it to herself, and somehow she'd always thought there would be more time.

It was a sobering thought. Patrick and James, two of the most important people in her life had never met or even spoken to one another, and now, they never would.

She stepped back under the water spray to rinse the shampoo from her hair, shutting her eyes so it didn't get in them. But even as she did, she felt a tear squeeze it herself out from under her eyelid and make a steady track down her cheek.

She brushed it away irritably, and tried to tell herself that it was just an errant drop of water from the showerhead, but then came another one, and another after that, and from deep within her a guttural cry rose up and escaped before she could stop it.

She looked nervously towards the door, praying that Jane hadn't heard, but now she had started, she found she just couldn't stop. On one hand, she cursed herself for her inability to keep her emotions under control, but on the other, every tear felt like a gift to her baby brother, an acknowledgement that he had lived, and been loved, and was missed.

The tears mixed with the water and were washed down the drain, and still she wept for him, for Jane, for herself, and for all of them. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel the injustice of it all. She was a good person, she worked hard, she looked out for her friends and she fought crime. And what did she have to show for it? Her brother dead, the man she loved at risk and herself in mortal danger. It just wasn't fair.

Xxxxxxxxx

Teresa had been in the shower now for what was going on half an hour. Time enough for him to look through her almost empty refrigerator and decide that they'd go out for breakfast, make himself a cup of tea, and drink it in front of the morning news, cringing when Bob Kirkland appeared on the screen, spouting something about national security. He noted idly that Kirkland could benefit from some media training; he had about the same level of charisma on screen as a doorknob. God only knew what Lisbon had ever seen in him.

He had a cup of coffee ready for her, but it sat on the kitchen counter, untouched, as the shower kept on running.

Five more minutes passed and still the water pounded on, until he eventually became curious enough to walk up to the closed door and put an ear to it. With a sudden jolt, he wondered if she might have slipped and hurt herself, and was on the point of calling out to her, when he heard a sob, muffled by the water.

His first instinct was to barge right in there and comfort her, even though to his shame, he couldn't help thinking about the fact that she was naked and wet. But his common sense kicked in a few moments later, and told him that she needed this. All week he had been waiting for her to let her guard down, let herself cry, and now, finally, she had. And if she only felt she could do it in private, who was he to deny her of it?

He was going to let her have this. Even if it killed him to hear her in this pain.

So he fixed himself a fresh cup of tea, got himself into a place on the couch that would allow him to see as soon as the door opened, and waited.

xxxxxxxxx

They arrived at the CBI a little later than usual, but seeing as the whole building was aware of Agent Lisbon's recent trauma, nobody gave them grief. Jane noticed a great many sympathetic looks coming her way as they passed through the corridors, and one or two people looking as if they would have liked to step forward and offer their condolences, but nobody quite dared. Lisbon seemed not to notice them, walking past the onlookers with her head held high, but Jane caught the eyes of a few of them and nodded a thanks on her behalf.

Lisbon had always been well loved at the Bureau, he knew, and as the years had passed and their unconventional partnership had run its rocky course, the respect of her fellow colleagues had grown. She'd always had it in her head that people would think less of her for sticking by him when others wouldn't, but he'd found that the case was the exact opposite. She was idolised by the younger agents, respected by the senior agents, and adored by her team. And she was so focused on her work that she didn't see it.

When they reached the bullpen, they found the team at their desks, Grace tapping away at her computer, Rigsby painstakingly adding rubber bands to a ball and Cho with his nose in a book. At the sight of his boss, Rigsby accidentally let fly one of the bands, which whizzed across the room and hit the new intern from the mailroom on the ear.

"Ow!" she shrieked, looking around the room. "Who did that?"

"Nice shot," deadpanned Cho, as Rigsby sheepishly sunk down in his seat, an action that achieved very little due to his height.

With an irritated sigh at the guy's immaturity, Grace turned to the boss and Jane.

"Hey Lisbon," she said. "A-"

"I'm fine, Grace," Lisbon cut in. "Seriously. I appreciate what you guys have done for me, but it's time to get back to business. And that goes for all of you."

The three other agents exchanged looks of mingled puzzlement and concern.

"Uh, that's great boss," said Grace, nervously. "But I was just going to ask you if you knew that Reede Smith was in your office?"

"What?" said Lisbon and Jane, together.

Grace looked uncertainly from one of them to the other. "He got here about ten minutes ago. Said he wanted to talk to you."

After shooting a quick glance in the direction of her office, Lisbon pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, pulled her shoulders back, and drew herself up to her full height.

"Thank you Grace," she said. "I'll see him now."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jane whispered under his breath as the two of them strode towards her office. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"You mean, do I think I'm going to hold my gun to his head and demand to know whether or not he's Red John?" she snapped. "What kind of an idiot do you take me for, Jane? We're in the middle of the CBI for God's sake, I'm not a complete moron, unlike some consultants I might mention."

"You don't have to do this," he said, swerving around Cho's desk, and ignoring her previous jab. "You can make up some excuse…get Cho to take the meeting. I don't think you're in the right frame of mind to be talking to him right now."

"I'll be fine," she said, dismissively.

"I'm not sure 'fine' is the word I'd use to describe the woman who just spent nearly an hour crying her eyes out in the shower this morning!" Jane retorted in a harsh whisper.

Lisbon pulled up short a few feet away from her office, with an expression on her face as though he'd just slapped her.

"You knew?" she asked, seemingly horrified.

"I heard you," he replied, in a gentler tone, regretting his previous forcefulness.

He honestly hadn't meant to bring it up; he'd been fully intending to let her keep her secret. He loved this woman to the end of the universe and back, but when she got her mind set on something she could be nothing short of insufferable, and in his frustration, things tended to slip out.

"And so now you think I'm going to dissolve into tears in the middle of a conversation with Reede Smith," she said, accusingly. "Or maybe just fall to my knees and wait for the handsome prince to ride in on his noble steed and rescue me from the evil fire-breathing FBI agent."

"If he turns out to be Red John, fire-breathing is the least of your worries," Jane shot back. "All I'm saying is that you can't go in there with your emotions all over the place. You have to calm down."

"Fine," she snapped, glaring at him, and taking a series of exaggeratedly deep breaths in an attempt to calm herself, closing her eyes and he could tell, trying very hard not to give in to her temptation to punch him in the face. The deep breathing seemed to help, and when she finally opened her eyes again, she was a lot calmer.

"Satisfied?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or do you want me to throw in that sun salutation as well?"

"I was always more a fan of the downward facing dog," he replied, unable to resist, and saw her grin, though she stifled it just as quickly.

"Pig," she said. "And as if you'd know anything about yoga anyway. You can't even grasp two of the most basic fundamentals; sitting still, and shutting the hell up."

And with that, she marched past him into her office and shut the door in his face.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Agent Smith," she said pleasantly, as the heavyset man got to his feet when he'd been sitting on the couch.

"Not a problem, Agent Lisbon," he said. "I appreciate what a difficult time this must be for you." He held out a formal hand. " On behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, our condolences."

Lisbon thanked him, but couldn't quite bring herself to shake his hand. If he were Red John, that hand would have been used to slay her brother. She couldn't bear the thought of touching it.

"I've also," Smith went on, with a hint of a smile, "been asked by Agent Mancini to pass along _his_ deepest sympathies, and to let you know he is available if you ever want someone to talk to," he said, rolling his eyes. "You know, if that means anything to you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she retorted, coolly.

"Just that my good friend Gabe, despite his desperate, burning desire for you, probably wouldn't be your first choice of confidante."

"Excuse me?"

Smith sighed, and ruffled the sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Look, Teresa," he said. "Mancini's a good guy but it's no secret that you are way out of his league. I mean, it was entertaining for a while, but with things the way they are now, it's gotten to become kind of sad."

"Is there a point here?" she enquired, testily.

"You and Jane are a bit of a double act these days, aren't you?" he said, and she felt ice appear in her veins. "Even more so than usual. So I told my good buddy Mancini that he may as well bow out gracefully. Though I have to say, Teresa, I can't say much for your taste."

It took all of her limited acting ability to keep her cool. She and Jane had been acting the same as they always had in the public eye; any more personal interactions between them had been kept strictly behind closed doors. Was Smith Red John? Had he been keeping tabs on them? Was he watching them?

She felt suddenly violated, as though her most intimate secrets had just been broadcast to the world on the Internet. Last night at her apartment. That night at the motel; private stolen moments where she'd let herself forget about mayhem and serial killers and give in to her most desperate fantasies. They were supposed to be moments just between herself and Patrick, not entertainment for some psychopathic voyeur.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said at last, using supreme effort to keep her voice steady.

Smith shrugged. "Play it like that if you want to," he said. "But there's no way to hide what you two have been up to."

On that note, he produced the paperwork he'd brought in, a form to facilitate a transfer of some evidence from the CBI lock-up to the FBI facility. Scrawled her signature without reading it and then Smith was on his way, with a sly smile and a wink as he departed.

The moment he left, she sank into her desk chair, head in her hands, and the door swung open again to reveal Jane, with a cup of coffee for.

"Well, looks like Smith escaped without the bullet to the skull. What was he looking so smug about anyway?" he wanted to know, setting the cup down beside her.

She looked up at him and he was surprised to see her face pale and her eyes blazing angrily.

"The bastard's been watching us, Jane."

Jane snorted, "Who?"

"Red John."

**A/N: That's all from me for now. The very wonderful Donna will be bringing you the next instalment soon.**


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hi! I'm back from vacation and ready to get back into this fic! Waterbaby and I appreciate all your kind reviews of her last chapter, and we hope this one garners as much love and support.

**Chapter 7**

"Are you sure you're going to be all right alone?" asked Jane for the third time as she walked out to the parking lot at six o'clock that evening.

"Yes. I'm suitably paranoid, Jane, so I'll be suitably vigilant. Don't worry about me. Go home and get some sleep—you said you didn't get much last night."

"Lisbon—"

She paused by her Mustang and lifted a hand to touch his cheek, her eyes watering a little with barely checked emotion. "I need you to be strong for me, Jane. I need to be able to depend on you to prop me up when I need it. How can that happen when you're as exhausted as I am?"

"Fine. But I want you to have some security guarding the place. Maybe even Cho or Rigsby."

"No, they're tired too, after the events of the last few days. They deserve a break themselves. I'll have a couple of state police patrol around my apartment complex, and I'll lock my doors and windows. I've got my gun, remember?"

He didn't like it one bit, and it wasn't so much that he feared for her safety (although that was certainly one worry); no, he feared she wouldn't actually stay at home.

"Okay," he said reluctantly.

He hoped she wasn't too suspicious at how easily he'd given up. He had one quick thing to do, then he'd watch her apartment all night himself. He knew he would get little sleep otherwise. He kept thinking of how Reede Smith's visit had shaken her even more than she already was, if that were possible, and he didn't like the wild look in her eyes after the FBI agent had left. In this state of mind, she wouldn't be in the mood to be cooperative.

He desperately wanted to kiss her again, to hold her so tightly in his arms that she wouldn't be able to get away and pursue whatever the hell she was planning. But she smiled wanly at him, and got into her car with a too-casual good-bye.

As soon as her car pulled out of the CBI parking lot, Jane took out his cell phone. He dialed the number he'd looked up earlier in anticipation of his plan.

"Yes, I need to rent a car today…"

A robin's egg blue Citroen didn't lend itself well to discreet surveillance.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took the car service longer than he'd expected to deliver his rental a block from the CBI, and he kept glancing at his cell phone clock in agitation as he paced anxiously before the capitol building. He even texted Lisbon to help ease his nerves.

_Did you make it home OK?_

She answered after a few moments, and he imagined that she was in the process of changing out of her work clothes, maybe microwaving a frozen dinner. Or so he hoped.

_I'm fine, Jane. Take a nap._

_You first. Lock your door._

She sent him an eye-rolling emoticon. He grinned, but he still wasn't buying that she was in any way _fine._

Lisbon's car wasn't in the parking lot of her apartment building, when he finally arrived in the nondescript gray sedan, and it was then that Jane began to panic a bit on his own. He pounded on her door to no avail, before retrieving his lock picks from their little case on his key ring. He let himself in without hesitation, then quickly proceeded to scour her apartment.

_So much for the state police patrol_, he thought bitterly. _The little liar._

She'd been there, and he saw her day's clothes thrown haphazardly on her bed. He noted that her Bible on the bedside table seemed at an odd angle, and he picked it up. Six familiar pictures fell out onto the floor, and he bent to retrieve them. Jane's Red John suspects. He shuffled through them, noting how she'd _X_-ed out Bret Stiles's face, and discovered what he'd immediately suspected—Reede Smith's photo was missing.

"Dammit, Teresa," he swore under his breath.

He knew Smith's address by heart, having been there himself when in the process of narrowing down his list. He'd wanted to see how the man had lived outside the FBI, and Jane had followed him home one evening to find kids playing basketball in the driveway and a wife weeding around yellow rosebushes. One point against Smith being Red John was the fact that he was a family man, with a wife and two teenage children. Serial killers didn't often have families. But that had by no means ruled him out; it was a good cover.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon parked across the quiet street of Reede Smith's residence, a split-level home that screamed family man. Even with her considerable clout, she hadn't been able to access the file of an FBI agent, so she'd phoned a friend from the bureau and made up some excuse as to why she needed to visit him. They'd trusted her and given her his home address. She knew she was taking a risk by her inquiry, maybe even alerting the mole Red John claimed to have there, but FBI agents didn't usually have listed addresses for security reasons, and that was a risk she was willing to take.

She ducked down in her seat as a nondescript woman and her two sons came out of the house, each of them carrying baseball equipment that they threw into the back of a nondescript minivan. Reede kissed his wife goodbye and waved as they headed off, presumably to ball practice.

But Lisbon wasn't fooled. This could very likely be a carefully laid out façade, and for all she knew his wife could simply be one of his minions. She brought out her Glock from her glove box, then methodically twisted on a silencer, this being the middle of a residential neighborhood. She hoped she was wrong about Smith, but just in case, the plan was that she not get caught. She was sure she could live with herself afterward, although she purposefully ignored the twinge of guilt she felt if she was responsible for those kids losing their father.

Lisbon slipped the Glock into the pocket of her leather jacket and walked nonchalantly to Smith's front door. Her heart was pounding, and she put thoughts of Jane's earlier worried expression out of her mind. Taking a breath, she knocked on his door.

Smith opened it with a smile. "Did you forget something-? Oh. Agent Lisbon. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I'll just take a minute of your time."

He leaned against the open door, regarding her curiously, his familiar cocky air as infuriating as ever. Lisbon gritted her teeth, fighting for control.

"May I come in?"

He stepped aside and held out his arm in mock welcome, then shut it firmly behind them. He led her into the living room.

"If you're expecting an apology for our earlier conversation, you're wasting your time."

"No," she said, her right hand slipping into her pocket. "That's not why I'm here. I just have one question for you." She pulled out her Glock and pointed it at his head. "Are you Red John?"

He looked at her, momentarily dumbfounded. Then, he began to laugh.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane parked his rental car behind Lisbon's and dashed across the street. His hand went to the doorknob, and, finding it unlocked, he turned it and pushed the door inward, wishing for once he had brought a weapon with him.

"Smith?" he called tentatively, his blood going cold with fear. Then: "Lisbon?"

He heard Lisbon's loud intake of breath from the foyer, and he followed the sound to the living room. What he saw there brought him up short, and his eyes grew round in shock.

She was squatting down by the body of Reede Smith, feeling his neck for a pulse. There was a small black hole in his temple, and blood pooled in profusion beneath his head, his empty eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

Lisbon still held her Glock.

"Teresa…" he said softly.

She turned more quickly than he'd ever seen her before, pointing her gun at him reflexively. The action made her head spin, but upon recognizing Jane, she lowered her weapon, squeezing her eyes shut at the near disaster.

"Jane. What-?"

"We need to get out of here, Lisbon," he said, snapping out of his own daze. "His family might come home any time."

"But, what the hell happened?" She seemed extremely confused, probably some sort of post-traumatic reaction. She tried to stand.

"I feel sick," she said woozily, one hand going to her face.

A horrible thought struck him. "Have you been drugged?" he asked her. If Smith had been Red John, had his final egregious act been to poison her? Jane looked around the body, then examined what he could of Lisbon's exposed limbs. No sign of anything used to inject her, no slimy green gel that would mean certain death.

"Sweetheart," he said, helping her to her feet. He spoke as if to a frightened animal. "You're in shock, but we need to get the hell out of here."

Her hand went to the back of her head, and she flinched in pain, but Jane didn't notice. He was too busy gingerly taking the gun from her numb hand, actually having to pry her cold fingers away from the weapon. He pocketed her Glock in relief. He'd get rid of the thing later, hoping beyond hope there would be no way to trace the bullet in Smith's skull back to her.

"We need to call 911," she was saying as he propelled her through the foyer and out the door. "Smith—"

"Smith's dead, Lisbon. I know you're tempted to turn yourself in, but I'm not ready to lose you to the gas chamber just yet."

Outside, Jane looked right and left, mentally crossing his fingers that no one had seen either of them coming in or out of this house. At the moment, he saw no one, and he allowed himself a brief feeling of gratitude.

Lisbon stumbled a bit on the garden path, and he tightened his grip around her waist to steady her and get her safely across the street. He stood before both their cars, in a sudden quandary. No way he was letting her drive off in her car alone, but that would mean leaving the rental car here. He'd used a false name to hire it, paid in cash, and had taken the extra precaution of having the service drop the car at a neutral location, but it wouldn't take long for someone like Cho, for example, to figure out who'd rented it. But it was even more out of the question to leave Lisbon's easily recognizable vehicle in front of a murder scene.

He sighed. There was no help for it, and he didn't have time to dawdle.

"Give me your keys, Teresa," he said, already slipping a hand into her pockets to search. "I know you're afraid to let me behind the wheel of your baby, but you're in no condition to drive."

She must have been severely shell shocked not to protest. His mouth formed a grim line. It was going to be harder than he thought to pull her out of this.

He found the keys in her jeans pocket, and half walked, half dragged her toward the passenger's side of the Mustang. The enormity of what Lisbon had done must have suddenly hit her, the weight of the last few days since her brother died bringing her almost literally to her knees. When she suddenly sagged against him, he looked down at her face in alarm.

"Lisbon?"

She was out cold. He slapped at her face firmly enough to garner a punch in the nose, but she didn't respond. He'd actually only seen her faint once before, when staring at a vat of carrion eating worms, but she'd quickly come out of it, much to her embarrassment. But that was nothing like now. He noticed a car approaching from down the street, and quickly bundled Lisbon's limp body into the car, buckling her seatbelt tightly around her. Then, with a deep breath, he got behind the wheel and started Lisbon's car.

He glanced over at her lifeless form beside him, trying not to let it scare him too much. She'd obviously had a psychological break, and he wasn't sure how he himself was going to deal with the fallout of what she'd done. He allowed himself to consider the possibility that she, and not him, had killed Red John. It occurred to him dispassionately that at this point, it didn't really matter. All he could think of was that he had to protect her from whatever was to come, even if it meant fleeing the country and starting over somewhere else. First thing, however, he had to find a place where they could regroup and make plans.

"Don't worry about anything," he told her, pulling out onto the street. "I'll take care of this, I promise." He really hoped she could hear him.

In a few minutes, he merged onto the highway then determinedly got into the lane marked _Oakland/San Francisco_.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On a middle class street in Oakland, Jane drove Lisbon's Mustang up the steep driveway in the back of his grandparents' house. It was empty now, its occupants long dead, but he'd held onto it as one of the few happy and stable memories he'd had from his childhood. They had been his mother's parents, and he remembered as a child how his grandfather—_Gramps_, as he'd called him—would build go-carts for him to race down the terrifying hills of Oakland, while Grandma worked in the yard and yelled at him to be careful. The house was an old, two-story farmhouse, and his grandmother had been fond of telling how when she and her parents had first moved there back in 1920, it had been surrounded by verdant farmland, cattle dotting the hills.

When Jane's mother had met Alex Jane at the carnival that was passing through, her parents had strongly disapproved. When she'd run off with him, they'd threatened to disown her, but they'd come around eventually, and whenever the carnival was nearby, Jane's mother would take him to see his grandparents. Alex was not welcome. Indeed, when Jane's mother died, Alex never allowed him to visit his grandparents again.

Years later, when Jane and Angela had fled the carnival, they'd taken refuge for a while with his grandparents. They'd lived long enough to see Charlotte's second birthday, but they'd died five years before Jane lost the rest of his family. Being their only grandchild, his grandparents had left him the house, and he'd never had the heart to sell it. Instead, it stood as a monument to his past, his own personal Rosebud.

The gardens surrounding the house were still lush and beautiful, thanks to the landscaper Jane kept on retainer, and he knew that even his grandmother would have been satisfied. A housekeeper came to dust and air out the place every few months, and Jane had installed a security system to protect his legacy from thieves and squatters.

Lisbon hadn't awakened during the entire drive, and this greatly disturbed him. It was nighttime by then, so he had the cover of darkness to carry her in his arms to the house and tap in the security code on the keypad by the first floor door. The second floor was two flights up, and Jane knew his limitations, so he laid her down in a first-floor bedroom and reset the alarm.

"Teresa," he said, shaking her a bit. He felt her forehead. She didn't feel feverish or in any way hurt, but he wondered if he should have taken her to the hospital anyway. Something was obviously going on that he didn't know about, and if she didn't wake up in a little while, he would risk the trip to the emergency room. He thanked whatever God Lisbon worshipped when at last she seemed to come around with an endearingly familiar groan of annoyance.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he murmured to her. "Wake up, will ya? You're scaring me here."

Her lashes slowly fluttered up, her green eyes unfocused in the lamplight.

"Jane? Where am I?"

"In Oakland," he told her. "An old family home of mine. No one will be able to find us here."

"What? Why?"

He stared at her a moment, debating what he should tell her. He wondered if she was suffering from amnesia, like what had happened to him last year, and if it would be unwise to remind her of what had really happened.

"Just rest now. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, but I feel…dizzy, and my head is killing me."

He looked at her closely, and his curiosity got the better of him. "What do you remember?"

She closed her eyes in thought for so long he thought she'd drifted off again.

"Lisbon?"

"Uhh…I remember going to Reede Smith's house…then…nothing."

"Do you remember me finding you?"  
She shook her head. "No. What happened?"

"Try not to think about it right now. Would you like a drink of water?"

Her mouth did feel terribly dry. "Please," she said weakly.

This was more than shock, he realized as he went to the kitchen sink. He let the water run a moment, then filled a small glass. It occurred to him that she might have been injured somehow. Maybe there'd been a scuffle with Reede before she shot him, but there'd been no sign of it at the man's house. He'd have to look more closely at her head and body to be sure.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Lisbon was asleep, her breathing deep and regular. He set her water on the nightstand and pulled off her low boots. Her leather jacket came next, and as he sat her up to pull it from beneath her, inhaled her herbal scented hair and wished with all his heart that they could find time just to be together, with no one threatening their lives or those they loved.

He set her back against the pillows and examined her arms. No bruises there. He'd have to lift her t-shirt to be sure. He glanced at her face, making sure she wasn't awake to fight him, and slowly he lifted the white cotton to her chin. He saw no bruises or pooling blood beneath the skin, which would have been an indication of internal bleeding. He did see a sexy, nude colored bra and he smiled, resting his hand on her warm stomach a moment-just for medical purposes, of course. He turned her over and saw nothing amiss there either, but noted the pleasing shape of her nicely toned back. He lowered her shirt and rested her on her back once more.

He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself for ogling her like this, but lately he'd been guilty of wanting her at completely inappropriate times.

Next, he unsnapped and unzipped her jeans, then gently pulled them down and over her feet. Her lower body was everything he could ever have wished for: small though shapely hips, slim thighs, and strong calves. Her panties even matched the bra. His hands skimmed gently down her legs, but she seemed perfect to him, and perfectly healthy. Hands shaking slightly, he folded her jeans and laid them on a chair with her jacket, then unfolded the blanket at the end of the bed to cover her. The only part of her he hadn't checked was her head.

He sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed and contemplated Lisbon's face in repose. She had always appeared younger than her age, and asleep, she looked positively childlike-sweet and innocent, free from grief and the harrowing desire for vengeance.

He brushed her dark hair away from her face, then began probing gently at her scalp. Her hair was soft and fine and it slipped through his fingers like silk. He tried not to enjoy touching her so much, but he feared he lacked the clinical distance necessary for examining Lisbon in this way. He moved to the back of her head, and at the same time he felt the huge goose-egg there, she whimpered in her sleep. He didn't feel a cut, so whatever had struck her had likely been something heavy and blunt.

Reede Smith had most definitely fought back. Maybe she'd shot him in self-defense, he thought hopefully. Maybe there was a way out of this yet.

He remembered to look at her pupils, carefully lifting her delicate eyelids. They seemed normal to him, but he didn't like seeing them so unanimated, so he closed them very quickly.

"Jane," Lisbon murmered in her sleep.

"Shh…I'm here," he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Lisbon awoke again, she was in a strange room in a strange house, and she sensed she was all alone. She vaguely recalled Jane speaking to her, but she had no idea how long ago it had been. Her head ached like a son of a bitch, and her mouth was dry as paper. She blinked against the dim light of the lamp, and saw a glass of water on the bedside table. When she turned to reach for it, she realized that she'd been handcuffed to the headboard, with what looked to be her own cuffs.

Had she been kidnapped? She managed just barely to reach the glass with her un-cuffed hand and sat up a little to take a sip, her head throbbing with each movement. Then she saw a note propped against the lamp.

_Lisbon,_

_The cupboards here are bare, so I ran to the store to stock up on supplies. Despite appearances, you have not been kidnapped, so don't panic. The cuffs are for your own protection. Try to rest._

_Jane_

"What the hell is going on here?" she said to the empty room. She rested against the pillow again, laying on her side because the back of her head seemed to be the locus of the pounding. It was then she realized that someone had removed some of her clothing. She blushed to think it had been Jane.

As she lay there helplessly, the beginnings of fury began to suffuse her addled brain. How dare he keep her prisoner like this? God help him when she finally got away, because he'd be nursing a broken nose for a month.

Suddenly, everything came flooding back.

She remembered being in Reede Smith's house, remembered confronting him with her suspicions that he'd killed her brother. He hadn't seemed afraid of her, hadn't even been offended by her questions. He'd smiled and denied he'd had anything to do with James's death, speaking to her as if she were a slow-witted child. She recalled how that had infuriated her, how she'd been close to shooting the asshole in the leg to get him to stop it, when something had struck her from behind.

Her last memory before she'd passed out the first time was the look of surprise on Smith's face as she crumbled to the floor before him. She'd awakened to find him dead, her Glock still in her hand.

Had she killed him? Jane must have found her soon after and thought she had, hence the handcuffs. The rest of it—how she'd gotten to this place, how she'd come to be half-naked—was all pretty fuzzy, and she grew mentally exhausted trying to figure things out.

Her last thought before she slept again was that someone had tried to set her up, and that someone was likely Red John, himself.

**A/N: I hope you will pardon the indulgence of including a description of my grandparents' house. I also incorporated a little of my own life into Jane's, which in a way keeps my Grandma and Gramps alive. They are long gone, but that house was always a place of stability for me, and I have many of my own happy memories of that place. I wish we could have kept it. It's still there in Oakland, so if you live in the area, go by 3903 Rhoda Ave. and have a look **

**Next up, waterbaby's chapter. I just know it'll be a good one! Thanks for reading!**

**P.S. Please read waterbaby134's newest fic "Throw Away the Key." It's really great! And I just completed my romantic fluff piece "Red Planet." That should give you something to read until our next chapter.**


	8. Chapter 8

Welcome to chapter 8 of our post-finale fic. We've been getting many reviews asking when our dynamic duo will finally get it together, to which I say only this….this chapter goes a little 'M.'

Thank you all again for all your feedback. Knowing you're enjoying what we write keeps us inspired.

**Chapter 8**

Shopping took longer than he'd planned. He always thought the kitchen in Lisbon's apartment was shockingly understocked, but most of the time she'd had _something _for him to work with, some bread at the very least, but his grandparents' house had been uninhabited for so long, that it truly had been empty.

He wandered through the aisles of the local market, picking up things at random and adding them to the cart. Coffee of course, was a no-brainer, a box of tea, some eggs and bread. He bought a large block of dark chocolate too, which he knew to be one of Lisbon's not-so-secret indulgences in times of stress. He watched a woman pass him by, her cart piled high with groceries, and found himself wondering when Lisbon had last eaten a meal that wasn't from a diner or fast-food chain.

His grandmother had told him once that there was a perfect kind of comfort food for every occasion, True, she'd probably been thinking of things like lost jobs and break-ups as opposed to suffering a psychotic break from possibly killing a man in his own home, but it couldn't do any harm for Lisbon to get something nutritious into her system for once. It might even go a small way to making her feel better.

A quick glance at his cell-phone informed him that he'd been out for nearly an hour and a half. There was every chance that she might be awake right now, and possibly planning another shooting once he got back to her. He banished the thought at once. Though he had his suspicions about what had transpired in Smith's house, he'd promised himself on the drive here that he wouldn't jump to any more conclusions without talking to her first. Even if she _had_ done it, he was sure there would be a good explanation.

Part of him had regretted the handcuffs, even as he'd been attaching them to her slim wrist. Too many negative connotations had come into his mind, arrest, prison, punishment, things he'd never wish on his wonderful Lisbon, but as he'd said in the note, it was for her own protection. He couldn't have her driving herself back to Sacramento to be arrested, or to continue hunting Red John on her own. It was far too dangerous a place for her to be right now, and what they both needed more than anything at the moment was some breathing space until they could figure out their next move.

But first, they would eat.

Lisbon woke again, shaking violently. She'd dreamed about dark shadows and gaping holes, and death everywhere and herself standing in the middle of it all, screaming until her lungs gave out but nobody heard, and nobody came to help her.

She moved her head painfully towards the nightstand, and a glint of steel answered her. Still handcuffed then. She listened hard for sounds of life anywhere near but the house was silent as the grave. She was still alone.

Where on Earth was Jane? Surely it didn't take this long to buy groceries, she thought irritably, if that was what he was _really_ doing. She squinted again at the note he'd left for her. How could she be sure that it even been him that had written it? Red John could have snatched him and left that to lull her into a false sense of security while he tortured Jane and then left him to die.

She inhaled, and then exhaled slowly. Her paranoia was getting the best of her. Jane had said himself that nobody would be able to find them here—wherever 'here' was. And she could practically hear him in every word of that note, as she read it through a third time. _"Despite appearances, you have not been kidnapped." _She bet he'd smirked a little to himself as he'd written that.

Her arm was starting to lose feeling now as it had been in one position for so long, her head was pounding like a bitch, and her mind was racing. Oh, when he got back here she was going to _make _him tell her what was going on even if she had to beat it out of him. And if he thought she couldn't do it one-handed, he had an unpleasant surprise coming.

How many houses did Jane own exactly? She'd seen his Malibu mansion, but he'd kept tight-lipped about this place. But even though she was being held against her will, she got the feeling that this had been a warm and loving home once, and couldn't help feeling more at peace here than she had for quite a while.

After a few minute's quiet contemplation, it hit her that she was once again _lying in bed, thinking of Patrick._ Although he was never very far from her thoughts these days. He'd captured her in every possible sense now. It would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic.

Outside the room, a door opened, and she could hear footsteps across the hardwood floor. They got steadily closer until a head of blond curls poked around the doorframe. He smiled to see her sitting up in bed (as best she could given the handcuffs.)

"You're awake!" he said happily. "Are you feeling any better?"

Her throat was still too dry and sore to permit her to yell at him like she wanted to, so she settled for a laser-beam glare instead.

"You look better, if that's any consolation," he said, stepping into the room, carrying two bulging grocery bags. "Got some of your colour back, at least."

"Anger," she croaked. "Now get these damn things off me." The handcuffs rattled against the headboard.

"Not yet," he said, firmly, now standing beside the bed and looking down at her. His gaze softened as it traced her face, and then glazed over a little as it travelled all the way down the rest of her body. She squirmed uncomfortably at his thorough appraisal of her, and couldn't help wondering if he'd been blatantly checking her out like this while she'd been unconscious. She couldn't say she'd never taken the opportunity to appreciate his physical attractiveness while he'd been sleeping on the couch in her office. It was the only time she'd ever felt safe to really look at him without fear of him finding out how she felt about him.

How she used to dread the thought of somebody coming into her office and catching her as she adored him with her eyes, but now, she'd give anything for that to still be her biggest concern in life.

"Are you hungry?" he asked her, holding up the bag he was carrying. "I thought I'd make us some pasta."

Pasta sounded wonderful. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a good meal, and she had a feeling that cooking was another activity on the long list of things that Jane did well. But she didn't want to appear too eager. She was after all, still supposed to be mad at him, so she set her mouth into a firm line and narrowed her eyes at him some more.

"Two things are going to happen before you leave this room. The first thing is that you're going to take these cuffs off me. The second is that I'm going to punch you in the face."

"I do love the way you say that with such authority, my dear, even though we both know that the only way you'll be getting up off this bed is when I decide you will." He waved the keys teasingly in front of her, being careful to hold them just out of her reach. She could do a lot of damage with her one free arm if he let her get close enough.

"You'll feel better once you've eaten something," he said, gesturing to the grocery bag.

"No I won't," she said, obstinately, and he was sure that if she were able to, she'd be crossing her arms in front of her in a show of defiance.

"Yes you will," he said lightly.

"Would you like to know what would make me feel better right now?" she asked him, sweetly. "I'll give you a clue, it involves me thrashing the hell out of you."

Jane winced as a range of wildly inappropriate images flooded his mind. Lisbon half-naked and handcuffed was testing his resolve enough, but in conjunction with that unintended double entendre and that angry glare, his desire for her seemed to grow threefold. He couldn't resist another look at her long, lithe legs resting on top of the comforter, and tried not to think about having them wrapped around him in the throes of passion. With a now familiar feeling of shame in himself, he sternly reminded himself why they were here. Teresa was injured, frightened and possibly being suspected of murder at this very moment. He needed to keep focused on doing the right thing by her, and to stop letting his own frustrations take him over like this. And the first step toward doing that was leaving this room right now, before the last of his common sense got lost in her creamy pale skin and bewitching eyes.

She watched his eyes rove over her body, saw his discomfort growing as they grew bright with lust. Well he could suffer for all she cared. She hadn't _asked_ him to take her clothes off. Let him have a taste of what it was like to see and want and never touch.

"I think it might be safer if I just leave you right here for now," he said, backing out of the room. "I'll bring it in to you when it's ready."

"You can't put it off forever, you know!" she called after him. "You're only delaying the inevitable!"

"_Amen, Teresa,"_ he thought, ironically, as he set the bag down on the kitchen counter. _"Amen."_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Reede Smith's wife and children arrived home from practice, found his body and called the police, the news spread through the Capital like wildfire. The slaughter of a cop was always big news in the DOJ. And this was not just any cop. An FBI man, a federal agent, murdered in his own home, presumably in cold blood. It was the kind of incident that that gave every law enforcement worker pause; a sharp reminder that this was what it meant to serve the people, the price they might pay.

From the moment the first responders radioed in the identity of the deceased, it took a mere hour for the news to reach the CBI. Rigsby, Cho and Van Pelt had been watching the TV in the bullpen, when the call came in.

Cho took the call from his desk; in Lisbon's absence he was always the unofficial leader of the team, and when he heard the news, he took down the details calmly and put down the receiver. He exhaled deeply as the phone settled back in its cradle, and Van Pelt and Rigsby exchanged quizzical looks. Cho was famous for his ability to keep his trademark poker face in almost any situation, anything that was able to prompt any response from him at all, had to be big.

"Reede Smith's dead."

Two heads snapped towards him, Van Pelt's hair whipped around in a flash of red.

"What?"

"You're kidding."

"I don't kid."

Rigsby rolled his eyes. "It's a figure of speech, Cho," he said.

"That's really not important right now," said Van Pelt, irritably, and then blew out a sigh. "I don't believe this. He was here in our bullpen less than twelve hours ago, and now he's dead."

"How?" Rigsby asked Cho.

"Shot in the head. Point-blank range. His wife and kids found the body."

"That's awful," said Van Pelt sadly. Rigsby cringed. He would hate for Ben to find him like that if something ever happened to him, and silently resolved to take greater care from now on.

"Someone needs to tell Lisbon," said Van Pelt, inclining her head towards her office. "The FBI will want to talk her about why he came to see her yesterday."

"She's not here."

Cho had arrived back from a sentencing hearing to find the office empty and no sign of their fearless leader. He'd thought nothing of it until now, but her continued absence in light of this news, not to mention the fact that Jane had yet to show his face this afternoon, struck him as odd.

He tried her cell, then Jane's. Both off. The alarm bells in his head started to ring even louder. Jane of course, was notorious for being _incommunicado_ at times, so that wasn't particularly unusual, but Lisbon never turned her phone off. She kept it with her day and night, and never once had she failed to answer when he'd called her in the past.

He leaned back in the chair and thought it over. Lisbon had been understandably distressed over the past few days, since Bob Kirkland's fateful visit. But she'd been acting a little strangely even before then. Ever since they'd closed the Eileen Barlow case, in fact. She'd been a little jumpier than usual, and withdrew into her office more often. And Jane had attached himself to her side even more resolutely than ever since her brother's death. At the time he'd put it down to just another chapter of the never-ending saga that was Jane and Lisbon, but now, the timing of it all seemed highly significant.

Jane had been rattled by Eileen's death, they could all see it, as well as by her killer's suicide in the back of the squad car. Classic minion behaviour, so nobody had really been surprised, but after her body had been shipped off the coroner, Jane had disappeared into the attic and after a while, Lisbon had followed him.

They'd been up there a long time, and when they eventually did come down, they'd barely spoken two words to anyone for the rest of the day, though once or twice he'd caught them exchanging dark looks across the room. Lisbon just hadn't been herself since then, and neither had Jane. And then James's death had just made things worse.

He glanced at his watch. The boss had now been MIA for nearly three hours, and if Jane were here he'd be frantic by now. But seeing as he wasn't here demanding they trace her phone to find her, Cho could only deduce that wherever they were, they must be together.

With a shiver of unease, he thought back to the conversation on the drive back from Oregon. Jane had seemed very on edge when he'd told them about Bret Stiles, and genuinely concerned for Lisbon's safety. She'd come away unscathed from the Stiles incident, but what if the two of them had been getting other ideas about the identity of their elusive enemy? It would be like Jane to cut the rest of them out of it if they were off somewhere tracking the serial killer. And Lisbon, fearing for their safety and blinkered by her love for him, would probably go along with it.

They could be in serious danger right now. And Grace was right, the FBI would want to talk to her about Smith's murder, and if they couldn't find her she'd become the prime suspect. There was only one thing for it. He had to find them first.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

With the bedroom door slightly ajar, Lisbon could hear him moving around in the kitchen; the sizzling of bacon in a frypan, and the chink of cutlery against plates. She'd been so out of it last night that she hadn't realized how hungry she was, but now some of the fog had lifted, she was fully aware of the way her insides seemed to be twisting upon themselves with hunger. When he edged back into the room holding a bowl piled high with spaghetti and a glass of wine, her stomach gave a growl and he smiled.

"What's this?" she asked, as he set it down beside her.

"Spaghetti carbonara," he said. "Haven't cooked it in a while, but it's a specialty of mine."

She wasn't fooled by the casual tone, and in her mind translated 'in a while' into 'since my family died.' She imagined him serving up this same meal to his wife in their grand dining room and yet again felt a deep wave of sympathy wash over her. It must be so awful for him, with reminders of her laced through everything he did. She only hoped that Angela Jane had known how deeply she'd been loved.

"Thank you," she said coolly, still full of indignation at being handcuffed. "Now get these damn things off me so I can eat."

"You've got another hand," he said carelessly.

"Don't be an idiot, this has gone far enough," she told him firmly. "You're going to let me out of these eventually, and the amount of pain I cause you will be dependent on how soon that happens."

The only reason he'd cuffed her in the first place was so she wouldn't go wandering around the house until she'd gotten her strength back. But she seemed a lot better now than when he'd first brought her here. She'd been almost like a zombie before, silent and unresponsive as he'd dragged her out of the car; but now her eyes were getting their animation back, and that scathing sarcasm still appeared to be working fine. She seemed like herself again, which was a relief, though whether the removal of the cuffs would work in _his _best interests remained to be seen.

Apprehensively, he withdrew the key from his pocket, and unlocked the cuffs from the headboard. She let her arm fall with a sigh of relief, but continued to glare at him as he removed them from around her wrist and placed them on the bedside table, gleaming in the lamplight.

She made a sudden snatching motion, and he winced in anticipation of the coming pain, but her grasping fingers landed on the bowl instead and dragged it towards her. He saw her close her eyes blissfully at the first bite and congratulated himself on his choice of the slightly higher-calorie dish over healthier fare. Creamy pasta and wine were just what she needed. Comfort food. His grandmother would have been proud.

"Don't think you're getting away with this," she said, jabbing a finger at the cuffs. "But if I'm going to beat the living daylights out of you, I'm going to need fuel."

"Of course."

Her bowl was empty within a few minutes, and the glass of wine hadn't even survived that long. She passed them both to him with a long, searching look.

"I didn't think they ran classes in Italian cuisine in the carnival," she said.

"I'm going to take that thinly-veiled insult as appreciation for the delicious meal," he replied, lightly. "And you're welcome."

"I don't recall saying thank you."

"You didn't have to," he said. "Or do you moan like that for every man who makes you a pasta dish?"

She ignored that one. With the exception of Greg, no other man had ever cooked for her like this. In fact, the vast majority had never really made it past the bedroom. And yes, the fact that Jane could cook well put his general level of irresistibility well and truly off the chart. It really wasn't fair that the man had so much going for him; she'd never stood a chance.

As she was considering this, the lamp on the table began to flicker on and off with a low buzzing sound.

"Is there something wrong with the power?" she asked, not exactly looking forward to spending the night in pitch blackness.

He shook his head. "It's probably just the globe. This lamp was always a bit tricky." He rooted around in the drawer and produced a thick candle, which he stood on the table beside her, returned to the kitchen for a box of matches, and ignited it. As the wick caught, a soft, flickering glow radiated from it, casting his face into shadow as he bent over it.

"What is this place?" she asked him. "You seem to know your way around."

"It belonged to my grandparents."

"Really?"

She honestly hadn't meant to sound so surprised, but in the ten years of knowing him, Jane had rarely mentioned any family except Angela and Charlotte. Before Danny Ruskin had turned up a few years ago, she'd always had the idea that his family had begun and ended with them. It was strange to think that someone she knew so well could have had a whole other life; completely separate to the one they shared. His past was a dangerous place, she knew, but she relished every new piece of information about how he'd come to be the man he was.

"They left this place to me," he said. "But I haven't been back here since Charlotte was two years old. Even Red John himself would have some difficulty finding us here."

"They could trace our cell phones," she pointed out. The food and rest seemed to have combined to get her brain working again, and she rejoiced in the fact that she could once again think like a detective.

"Off. And I took out the batteries as an extra precaution. The only way he'll find us is if he had a minion follow us here." He paused, and they both glanced around the dim room as though expecting an axe-wielding maniac to loom out at them. When none did, he pressed on. "We're as safe here as we can ever expect to be with him still at large."

"Jane…" Her voice was soft, as he sat on the bed beside her. "I didn't kill him."

His sharp intake of breath told her that he'd been waiting for her to bring this up.

"What do you remember?"

"Going to Smith's house. Waiting. Talking to him, asking if he was Red John. He _laughed_ at me, Jane," she added, scornfully. "I had a gun to his head, and all he could do was tell me that I needed professional help. He didn't even flinch."

He could picture the scene. Smith, arrogant as ever, and Lisbon, getting ever angrier as he patronized her, refused to take her seriously. Situations like that never ended well even when it didn't involve the grisly death of one of her brothers.

"And then, something hit me over the head," she finished. "And the next thing I knew, I was here. Someone clearly wants it to look like I did it, and no prizes for guessing who." She let out a sigh of frustration. "It's like McTeer all over again."

"No it's not," he batted back to her. "This time, we know who's behind it. That's a start."

"We know _Red John_ is behind it," she countered. "Who could be any one of five men we can't get to, and no matter how far we run, _will_ manage to track us down eventually."

When she put it like that, he couldn't help but appreciate the hopeless circumstances they were in. Red John had them backed into a corner, on the run like frightened animals, and if they were going to have any chance of beating him, they had to get their control back.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," she said morosely, watching the flame of the candle dancing in a slight draught. "I'm just so _tired_."

"I know," he said, heavily. "I am too. But we're safe here," he added, in cajoling tones. "Come on, let's not talk about this anymore tonight." He touched her arm lightly; her skin felt warm and smooth. "We can plan in the morning."

His touch was like fire on her arm, it tingled, her senses seeming to come alive at his fingertips.

"One day this will all be over," he said, as they both watched his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. "One day we'll be able to stop looking over our shoulders. One way or another, you will get your life back. I promise you that."

"I don't even care about that anymore," she said, with a half-laugh. "All I really want now is you."

His hand stopped tracing, her heartbeat quickened.

"I'm so sick of sharing you with him," she admitted, in a whisper. "And as much as I want to get him for justice and for all those noble reasons, part of me just wants this to be over so I can have you all to myself." He heard a slight tremor in her voice as she asked him, "Does that make me a bad person?"

He didn't answer with yes or no. Instead, he put his lips to hers, and kissed her, softly at first but she took control of the kiss, opening her mouth eagerly, deepening it, refusing to let him cop out. She fell back against the pillows with a soft thud as he matched her kiss for kiss, once again losing himself in the pleasure of her soft lips and the glory of knowing how much she still wanted him, even after all he had put her through.

They broke the kiss after a few minutes, and he glanced down at her to see her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, and her hair in silky disarray over the pillow. What could a man like him possibly have done to deserve someone so perfect? He must have been gazing at her longer than he realized, because she suddenly frowned.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"You don't seriously feel like you have to compete with Red John for my attention, do you?" he asked.

"Not to mention all the other women as well," she said, trying to laugh it off, but he could see the hurt in her eyes as she said it.

"Red John is a big chapter in my life I need to close," he conceded. "But don't you ever say that you're second-best to him in my life, when you're the most important part of it."

He kissed her once again, and felt her arms winding around him, pulling him down on top of her. He moved his focus to her neck, kissing, nuzzling, suckling as her breaths came out in short, sharp gasps, punctuated with quiet moans of pleasure.

"Oh and by the way," he whispered into her ear. "There are no other women. You're the only one I ever saw. I just told myself I didn't deserve you, and I made some mistakes."

"Well here's your chance to make up for it," she said. "He's coming for us anyway, no matter what we do. So please, Patrick. Make love to me."

She was right. In a few days they might both be dead anyway, and more to the point, he didn't have the will to resist her anymore. Unbuttoning his vest was a slow process as his fingers were so desperate to touch her again; they seemed to have a mind of their own. She reached up to tear his shirt from him and to undo his belt buckle. He helped her slide his pants down and they were discarded in a twisted heap at the foot of the bed, as she pulled her top off and flung it away too. Both now down to just their underwear, proceedings came to a halt. She couldn't keep her eyes away from the bulge in his boxers, but knew without looking that he was experiencing the same kind of fascination with her breasts. She could feel it.

They probably could've lain there for a quite a while just drinking in the sight of each other, but Teresa's sex drive gave her an impatient nudge. Finally, f_inally_ after all these years of one-night stands, she was going to be satisfied. Everything inside her seemed to clench up in anticipation, and then suddenly, she couldn't keep her hands off him anymore, bringing her mouth to his again with a lot more intensity than she'd expected. She had earned this. She sent home more than one guy over the years who wanted a round two, for the one simple reason that they weren't _him_. Even when she hadn't gotten laid in months and was frustrated beyond all belief, still she hung in there, waiting for him. And this was going to be worth the wait.

Once again, their tongues met in a furious, passionate dance, and she could feel him, hard and determined against her, and herself almost drowning in desperate, desperate want. His hands had found their way to her bra now, exploring underneath it, brushing over her nipples, fumbling with the clasp at the back until finally it came free. He slid it off over her shoulder and let his mouth fall on each of her breasts in turn, as she squirmed with delight beneath him. She threw back her head and cried out as he teased her with his mouth and his fingers. The sudden sound distracted him momentarily, and she seized her chance.

She rolled them both over, so now she was on top. She straddled him, trapping him between her strong thighs, and lowered herself onto him, their bodies now prevented from joining by two flimsy strips of fabric. His frustrated cry echoed her own thoughts; she wanted him this very minute, but placed discouraging hands on top of the fingers reaching to rip her panties from her. He'd teased her first, so it was only fair. She wriggled herself around on him, feeling his arousal growing with every movement.

"You're evil," he told her, the strain in his voice belying how much he wanted to simply take her now, and she deliberately held his gaze, seeing him using every bit of his restraint, and seeing them glaze over again every time she moved. And she wasn't finished yet. She bent to kiss him again, hard and passionate, at the same time reaching for the cuffs on the bedside table. She did it fast. Long before their lips had parted again, she had him shackled to the headboard with both hands. He wasn't the only one who could take advantage of someone when they were down.

It only took him a moment to realize what she'd done, and as that seductive smile slowly spread over his lips, she felt a heady mixture of triumph and love and animal lust combining within to give her one of the most sensuous feelings she'd ever had in her life. She smiled down at him.

"I told you that you weren't getting away with it," she said, through both of their panting. "Nobody cuffs me to a bed without my consent. Not even you."

She punished him soundly. She started at his head, and kissed him and caressed him all over. She pulled her fingers through those sexy curls, nibbled at his earlobe, kissed his neck, and traced the outline of his face with her fingers, grinning at the slight stubble she found. She moved on to his collarbone, his shoulders, kissed her way down his chest, paying attention to his reactions. A sharp gasp of breath or a buck of his hips told her she'd hit pay dirt, and she concentrated her efforts on that area for an extended period of time. She had Patrick Jane completely at her mercy, free to do whatever delicious things to him that she so desired. And as a bonus, she could see that he was being tortured by his inability to touch her, and end her sensual onslaught. She was in total control.

Slowly, (agonizingly slowly in Jane's mind) her fingers and her mouth wandered down until they met the waistband of his boxers. She slipped her hand inside them and let her fingers wander where they pleased, gentle, and feather-light, and she heard a mixture of groans and sighs and grunts exude from him, and to her pleasure, her own name repeated three times, until finally she tugged the boxers off and he was completely naked before her. And then, she hauled herself off of him completely, and walked around until she stood beside him at the head of the bed. Keeping her gaze fixed on his, she pulled down her panties and stepped out of them, and he gave a moan of longing.

"I'm going to uncuff you now," she told him, in a whisper. "And then we're going to finish this. Because I swear to God if you deny me again, I think I might kill you."

"Well if these damn things keep me from touching you for any longer, you won't have to," he panted.

Silence fell between them, the air practically humming with sexual tension, as she released him from his bonds, and then got astride him once again. One feeling of her, wet and warm against him, was enough for him to roll her beneath him and slide himself into her.

It was quite astonishing how easily they fell into a rhythm, he modulating his pace to match her cries and moans. He could feel her fingernails digging into the back of his neck, encouraging him to go deeper, harder, faster, to which he happily obliged. Beads of sweat began to form on both of them as he moved in and out of her. He listened to her breaths becoming shallower, waiting for her to find her ecstasy, until finally, she did, shuddering and gasping, and he followed soon after.

"Oh God," she sighed, when it was all over, as she attempted to catch her breath.

He nuzzled her neck, with a satisfied smile. "I could die now," he whispered into her skin. "Nothing could ever, ever be better than this."

She scoffed a little. "You mean to tell me that this is all you've got?" she asked him with a tiny giggle. "You've hit your peak already?"

"Not even slightly," he said. And his hand went down under the coverlet, skimming over her body until it found her still wet. He went to work, and within a few minutes he was watching with satisfaction as she arched her back, and screamed his name again, breaking apart under his touch. It took her a little longer to recover from that one, he noted with triumph.

"Still doubting me?" he asked. "Or do I have to show you again?"

She met his eyes defiantly, a teasing sparkle lighting up the green. "How do you know I didn't fake it?" she asked him, innocently. "Just so you wouldn't feel bad. Maybe I'm a better actress then you think."

"Oh, Teresa," he said, tracing one of her nipples with his tongue. "Nobody's_ that_ good."

"Are you sure?" she challenged him. "Maybe we ought to find out."

He took that bet. After all, he never had been one to shrink away from a challenge.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at the CBI, the team was beginning to become concerned. Grace had been unable to get a signal from Jane or Lisbon's cell phones, and no amount of digging through traffic cameras had been able to even give them a place to start looking. They'd spotted a Mustang at an intersection, that might have been Lisbon's, but the picture was too grainy to be absolutely sure. And why would they be heading for the Interstate anyway? It didn't make any sense. Sacramento was where the action was, so to speak. It was a shame they hadn't taken Jane's car, which stuck out like a sore thumb and would have been far easier to track.

Although, Grace had pointed out grimly to the other two, perhaps keeping their movements a secret had been the idea.

The FBI had already phoned with a request to speak to Lisbon about her encounter with Smith, but Cho had managed to head them off by telling them brusquely that she was meeting with her remaining brothers to discuss James's will, and was therefore unreachable for the rest of the evening. The agent he'd been speaking to, a Special Agent Broome, had accepted this story for tonight, but urged Cho to have Lisbon call him in the morning as soon as she got in. So he'd bought them a few hours breathing space, but if they kept ducking the FBI like this, it was going to look suspicious.

"OK," Rigsby said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Let's run through this again from the beginning. What do we actually know?"

Grace exhaled slowly. "We know that three weeks ago, Red John murdered Eileen Barlow," she said. "And we know that last week, he killed Lisbon's brother in Oregon."

"But why?" asked Rigsby. "Normally there's months between Red John murders, not weeks. And he's never gone for us on such a personal level before."

"Something's changed," said Cho. "So what else do we know?"

"Lisbon left Oregon early," Rigsby continued. "She thought Bret Stiles was Red John and wanted to find out if he'd killed her brother."

Cho shook his head. "That's the story Jane told us," he reminded them both. "We don't _know_ that. That makes a difference."

"You think he was lying to us?" asked Grace.

Cho had been paying close attention during that conversation, and while he'd never known a more accomplished liar than Jane, his gut feeling was that most of what he was saying had been the truth.

"I don't think he was lying," he said, finally. "But I also don't think he was telling us everything." He looked to the other two. " There has to be more to this than what we're seeing. Have you noticed anything different about them in the last few weeks?" he asked, and the other two pondered this.

"Lisbon glances over her shoulder a lot now," said Grace after a while. "It's only now you say it that I've consciously realized it, but every time we've left the building since the Barlow case, she checks all around her, like she thinks there's someone after her."

"And did you see the way they were at the Macintyre crime scene last week?" said Rigsby, thoughtfully. "They couldn't go two minutes being out of each other's sight. You know how Jane normally goes wandering around the house, going through their drawers and stuff? This time he wouldn't leave the room she was in."

"And he barely even glanced at the body at all."

"That's not exactly unusual," argued Cho.

"But she didn't even tell him off," Rigsby pointed out. "You know how pissed off she gets when he doesn't take the job seriously. But she never said a word."

They continued in this vein for some time, all quite surprised and impressed at just how much they'd noticed about their two colleagues without even realising it. Jane must have been rubbing off on them.

"So we're agreed," Cho concluded, a few minutes later. "Something's up with them. And whatever it is, it happened during or just after the Eileen Barlow case."

"Agreed," Rigsby and Van Pelt chorused.

"So we need to get that case file back, and tear through it until we find out what we're missing. Maybe Eileen was connected to Red John in some way. I'll put in a request to get it out of the archives tomorrow. Until then, if anyone hears from them let us know immediately."

It was nearing seven before the team finally broke for the day and went home. It was clear to all three of them that something big was going down that they didn't know about. Jane would not have just up and skipped town in the middle of a Red John case, if it weren't absolutely essential, and for Lisbon to miss a day of work was practically unheard of. Whatever was going on, the team wanted to help, in whatever way they could.

"What if we're wrong about this?" Grace asked Rigsby as they left HQ and headed towards their cars.

It was dark in the parking lot, so she risked a little squeeze of his hand, and smiled to herself when he squeezed back. Keeping their relationship a secret seemed less important this time around. They'd both grown up a lot since the first time, and even though the rules of office relationships hadn't changed, it wasn't a deal-breaker anymore like it had been before. Jane and Cho both knew of course, had guessed it within days, but though officially Lisbon had kept her head in the sand about it, they were sure she knew. Jane told her almost everything, and every now and then Grace had seen her look towards the both of them with a smile.

It had taken a lot for the two of them to find each other again, trips to L.A and babies and homicidal fiancés to name just a few, but she had faith that this time it would work out between them. After all, the fact they could go through so much, and still have feelings for each other had to mean they were onto something real.

"We're doing exactly what we're always telling Jane _not_ to do," she went on. "Jumping to conclusions. There could be a whole bunch of reasons that we're not even considering."

"This is the one that makes the most sense," he said.

"But don' t you think it's a bad sign that our minds immediately jump to Red John whenever anything seems even slightly out of place?" she asked. "I mean, what does that say about us, and our state of mind? How do we know they're not just holed up in a house somewhere making out?"

Rigsby scoffed. "Jane and Lisbon?" he said. "As if."

"Well they could be," she persisted, stubbornly. Anyone who'd seen the way Lisbon looked at him sometimes would know what she was talking about. But Wayne, while a highly skilled investigator, was woefully unobservant to things that happened around him. Most of the time, she found that naiveté endearing, but at moments like this, she just wanted to shake him.

"Trust me, Grace, they're somewhere chasing Red John. Jane probably got himself a hot lead and they took off together. I know he wants to do it all on his own, but I don't see the boss letting him somehow."

"She's so loyal to him," said Grace softly. "Makes me feel like we should be doing more."

He drew her to him briefly, and kissed the top of her head.

"Look, I'm all for finding out what's going on, and for offering Jane our help if he wants it, but I think he's made it pretty clear he doesn't. This is his fight, babe, not ours."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good. A candle was softly glowing, the bed was soft and comfortable and she had Patrick Jane pinned to it with her body.

"Give up yet?" she asked, with a coy grin, and he grinned back at her.

"All right," he said, putting his hands up in defeat. "You win." He reached for her once more, and gently stroked her hair away from her eyes. "Now come here, and get some sleep. We've got a lot to do in the morning."

Like prove her innocence, she supposed, if she ever wanted to show her face in the Capital again. But she banished the black thought from her mind. Misery could wait until she woke up. For now, she wanted bliss. So she slipped underneath the coverlet and folded herself into his strong arms. Bliss indeed.

Not for nothing, had Jane been an insomniac for ten years, and even making passionate love to Lisbon wasn't quite enough to get him off to sleep right away. So he lay there for a while listening to her slow breathing and counting the freckles on her back. He wouldn't have chosen for this to happen this way, but he was very glad it had.

He thought about that until an orange-reddish glow began to seep through the window and into the room.

**As a rule, I don't generally write M stuff. I usually stick to heavy 'T' but this time I thought I'd push my boundaries a little further. I did try to write everything in a tasteful manner. **

**Please check out Donna's new fic "Amore a Roma" if you haven't yet. If you're reading this fic you already know how awesome she is, and her solo efforts never disappoint. **


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Waterbaby and I thank you once more for the wonderful reviews you've left for our story! We really do appreciate them and read every one gratefully.

This chapter nearly ate my lunch, but I hope my struggles pay off for you. A lot happens, and I'm anxious to hear what you think. So, without further ado, I'll take a deep breath, close my eyes and cross my fingers, and let you read…

**Chapter 9**

At first, Jane thought it was morning, his brain still in a sensual fog. But he remembered that it must only be about three a.m., so the red glow from the window couldn't have been the approaching dawn. He hadn't been out of the bed since Lisbon had attacked him—he grinned at the memory—so since he wasn't sleeping anyway, he gently disentangled himself from Lisbon's sweetly sleeping form and rolled to the edge of the bed. His feet planted now on his grandmother's antique rug, he rose and walked idly to the barred window. He lifted the sheer white curtain, then he gasped in horror.

"What is it?" asked Lisbon sitting up in bed.

"Get up and get dressed," he snapped. "The house is on fire."

"What?"

This bedroom faced the rear of the house, and the thick foliage in the backyard likely made it impossible to see from the street the fire that was burning just below the window.

They smelled the smoke at the same time. Jane reached for the overhead light switch, but the electricity was off. It occurred to him that the lamp being out earlier hadn't been simply a problem with the bulb.

Red John had found them.

Jane was glad Lisbon's training made her calm in a crisis. She got up, and they reached for their pants and shirts, quickly pulling them on. Jane went to the bedroom door and felt it. He hadn't shut the door earlier, he realized. Someone had been in the house.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed. The door was burning hot.

Lack of electricity explained why there had been no alarms from the security system.

"Where's our phones?" Lisbon was asking.

Jane looked bleakly at her in the flickering candlelight. "I took them apart. They're in the kitchen."

Lisbon went to the window herself, looking for the latch that would release the bars. Jane shook his head.

"No one was living here," he said. "I didn't think much about fire safety."

Lisbon frowned. She'd seen this kind of thing before, too many times. Paranoid people had died in their homes when the iron bars that had been installed to keep bad people out had imprisoned the owners in a death trap of their own making.

"What do we do now?" she asked, trying desperately not to panic.

"We have to try to make it back through the house. Stand back from the door; I'm opening it."

"Jane—wait! You could be fried in an instant."

He hesitated, then his eyes scanned the room, feeling nervous sweat trickling down his back, the seconds ticking away in his mind. There had been many days he'd felt like dying in the last ten years, but today, with Lisbon at his side, was not one of them. The room was rapidly filling with smoke. Lisbon began coughing and holding the hem of her shirt to her nose. Jane forced his brain to calm down, to concentrate.

He quickly picked up the candle and went to the far corner of the room, his eyes going to the ceiling. There was a metal grate there, and he knew that there was a matching one on the other side of an airshaft in the second story parlor. He remembered sleeping in this room as a child, listening to the comforting sounds of his grandparents talking and laughing upstairs. The grate was covered by a small area rug in the summers when the heat was turned off, and it still was since it hadn't been in use for years. He pulled a chair from the vanity table and climbed on top of it.

"Hand me your knife from dinner," he said.

She pressed it into his palm like a surgical nurse. He allowed himself a small smile at the image, and proceeded to insert the top of the case knife into the two screws on one side of the grate, willing his hand to move steadily. She took the candle from him and held it up so he could see. Several precious seconds elapsed until at last, the screws clattered onto the floor and the metal grate swung out, hanging by its hinges.

It would be a tight fit, but they should be able to climb through the grate and up to the second floor.

Lisbon realized his intentions and shook her head. Her voice came out around a hoarse cough.

"Won't the opening upstairs be screwed down as well?"

"Yes," said Jane, coughing now too. They could hear the sounds of the fire crackling on the other side of the door and outside the window, and the acrid smell of smoke was nearly overpowering. It irritated their eyes, and Jane wiped at the tears that were now flowing down his cheeks.

"I've got an idea," said Lisbon, and, setting down the candle, she went to the end of the four-poster bed. She began to unscrew one of the posts from its base; her parents' bed had worked this way, she recalled.

Jane felt like kissing her as she handed him the heavy post. His first try struck unforgiving metal, but then he reared back and put all his strength into it. It took two more tries before the grate flipped up above him, and he was able to reach up into the parlor and drag the small rug away. He was relieved that he didn't feel any direct heat upstairs.

"Hold the chair," he said.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh air above him, he climbed up the ladder-back of the chair and managed to gain purchase of the heavy couch near the grate above. He pulled himself up, and almost laughed when he felt Lisbon helping him by pushing on his ass, then the bottoms of his feet.

When he finally hauled himself into the room above, he rolled onto his back, tempted to stay there and rest, wishing fleetingly that he'd kept himself in better shape, but Lisbon was already pushing the chair downstairs against the wall and reaching up toward him. He put his hands down through the air shaft and caught hold of her wrists, then slid his hands up her forearms. Lisbon didn't weigh much over one-hundred pounds, but pulling her up wasn't as easy as he would have thought. He got her up into the parlor as far as her elbows, and they both managed to get her up the rest of the way.

She got to her feet and wiped her eyes, taking her own grateful breaths. The windows in the parlor were also barred, since there was the eave of the lower floor right beneath, but Jane knew the front windows had no bars.

"Come on," he said, pulling her through the parlor and out into the hallway. They must have been over the kitchen, for the hardwood floor was getting hot beneath their bare feet.

They reached the front windows in his grandparents' old bedroom, and Jane pulled back the curtains, lifting up the window and kicking out the screen. The smell of gasoline was strong in their nostrils. One storey below them was the front lawn. It would break their fall, but it would likely also break their legs if they simply jumped.

He was about to suggest they lower themselves down partway with some tied together bedding, when movements outside caught his eye. There was a streetlight on the corner of the lot, and by that light, Jane and Lisbon watched a dark, hooded figure moving to the edge of the lawn. They heard the strike of a match, saw it flare up in the figure's hand before he tossed it onto the grass. Instantly, the ground came to life with fire, and they watched in awe as the flames followed a path no doubt made with gasoline. It began to take shape—a circle. Three more matches were struck and flicked into its center, and the familiar eyes and grinning mouth of Red John's calling card flared into sinister relief.

The man below must have sensed he was being watched, for he suddenly looked up at the window. The pair stepped back, but Jane was certain they had been seen. Then, in the light of the fiery smile, Jane saw the man's face. He gasped as he recognized one of seven visages he had stared at for weeks, one that he had seen countless times over the last ten years and had discounted until Lorelei Martins had given him that fateful clue.

"Partridge," Lisbon whispered beside him, grasping Jane's arm tightly in shock.

Brett Partridge smiled from beneath his hood, bowed dramatically, and began pouring gasoline from a plastic fuel can onto the grass below the window, then splashing it onto the wall of the house.

"No!" cried Lisbon involuntarily.

"I win, Patrick," he called cheerfully, and with a final match, set ablaze their only apparent means of escape. They watched in horror as Red John melted into the darkness from which he had come.

In the distance, they heard the screaming of approaching sirens.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Then next morning, when Lisbon and Jane weren't in the office again, Cho was seriously worried. This wasn't like them, to not even call and check in. Red John's slaying of Lisbon's brother had suitably spooked Cho into believing the serial killer was amping things up again. He only hoped Jane and Lisbon's disappearance was just a strange coincidence.

Van Pelt and Rigsby arrived in the bullpen soon after, each glancing at Lisbon's office, and then at Jane's couch. Cho shook his head. They wondered how long they could put off the investigators into Reede Smith's death. Then Bob Kirland showed up.

"Where's Agent Lisbon?" he asked curtly.

"Taking some bereavement time," said Cho easily. "She's entitled, don't you think?"

Kirkand's eyes narrowed, but then he opened the folder he was carrying with him, tossing it like an accusation on Cho's desk.

"Ballistics came back. The gun that killed Reede Smith was a Glock."

_Lisbon uses a Glock,_ thought Cho, trying not to let the Homeland Security agent notice how tense he'd become.

"So?" said Rigsby.

"We didn't find the weapon…yet. But there's some other interesting information to report, and I'm sharing this with you as a courtesy because of your vested interest in the Red John case."

"What is it?" asked Cho.

"There was a rental car parked across from Smith's home. Turns out it was rented the day of the murder by a man who paid the car company double to allow him to pay cash instead of using his credit card. His signed name was practically illegible, but the desk clerk described the renter as of medium height and build, mid-forties, wearing a three-piece suit and sporting blond, curly hair. Sound familiar?"

The team chose to take that as a rhetorical question, but they each felt their stomachs flip over uncomfortably.

"Well, turns out," Kirkland continued, almost pleasantly, "fingerprints on the door handle and the steering wheel match those belonging to one Patrick Jane."

"That doesn't prove anything," said Rigsby.

"It proves that Jane was at the scene of a murder."

They could say nothing to that.

"Now, I suggest that if any of you know the whereabouts of Mr. Jane, you tell me right—"

Cho's desk phone rang, and he rudely moved to answer it.

"Cho."

"Agent Cho," said the gruff voice on the other end. "This is Sergeant Richner from Oakland PD. I was told that your unit was the one to call if we ran into anything related to the serial killer, Red John."

Cho carefully averted his eyes. "Yeah," he replied.

"Well, we have a situation here. A house burned down early this morning. Arson, by all accounts. A funny thing though-our arsonist made a big smiley face out of gasoline on the front lawn. Lit it on fire and everything. Hell of a yard decoration. Not that it matters—the house was a total loss."

"Anyone killed?" asked Cho.

"We're not sure. The house is still too hot to search yet. Uh, but that's the other thing, Agent. I hate to have to inform you, but we found a Ford Mustang registered to a Teresa Lisbon, parked in the driveway. She one of yours?"

"Yeah," Cho said grimly.

"Do you know what business she might have had in this house?"

"No idea."

"We traced the owner of the house, but it's still in the names of a deceased couple who died nearly twenty years ago. Do the names Michael and Charlotte Sommers mean anything to you?"

"They might."

"The neighbors said no one lives in the house, but it was always sealed up like Fort Knox. The company that provides the security system called the station when they reported a suspicious power outage to the house about thirty minutes before someone called in the fire."

"What's the address?"

The sergeant supplied it, and Cho assured the man they'd be right there.

"We caught a case," he announced, after hanging up the phone.

"Anything I can help you with?" asked Kirkland suspiciously.

"No, thanks."  
"If you hear from Mr. Jane, you'll let me know, understood." It was clearly both a command and a warning.

"Of course," said Van Pelt, as she grabbed her gun and tablet computer from her desk drawer. No way she was hanging around the CBI with the FBI and Homeland Security hovering over her shoulder. The other two retrieved their own weapons, then took their suit coats and headed for the elevator without another word to Kirkland.

"Sorry," Van Pelt felt compelled to say as she moved to follow after the guys.

"You can trust me, Grace," said Kirkland, his quiet voice stopping her in her tracks.

She turned to look at him, but all she could think to do was nod. She didn't in fact trust him, not as far as she could spit.

The _ding_ of the elevator made her hasten out of the bullpen to follow the rest of her team.

She didn't look back again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the company SUV, Cho filled them in on the call from Oakland PD.

"Oh, my God," said Van Pelt. "What if they were in the house?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Rigsby repeated his earlier admonition. He was sitting in the back seat with her, and he took her hand in his. "The boss and Jane are pretty resourceful. And who knows what kind of game Red John could be playing."

Cho agreed. "Van Pelt, look into the owner of that house. 3903 Rhoda Avenue."

She fired up her tablet and began checking into the CBI's database.

"You said the names of the last owners were Michael and _Charlotte_ Sommers? That's probably not a coincidence."

"I didn't think so either," said Cho.

In a few moments, Van Pelt had confirmation. "Those were the names of Jane's maternal grandparents. They died within a year of each other back in 1998. I'll check to see the records for who's paying the bills now."

She did her magic, and in no time she had pulled up the information.

"Utility bills are sent to a post office box in…Sacramento. According to the City of Oakland, electric and water are always paid anonymously with a money order. Property taxes are up to date, and are paid by…Patrick Michael Jane."

"Well, that explains it," said Rigsby. "I bet they were hiding out in his grandparents' house because one of them knew they'd be a suspect in Reede Smith's murder. Unless Smith was Red John, or it was in self-defense, there's no way the boss would have killed him. Maybe it was Jane…"

"Could be," said Cho. They all remembered how easily it was for him to kill Timothy Carter when he thought _he_ was Red John.

"But if Red John burned down that house, Reede Smith wasn't Red John," said Rigsby.

His words hung in the air as they contemplated all the ramifications of what they'd learned that morning, combing it with their speculation about Eileen Barlow-Turner's death and the murder of James Lisbon. Van Pelt wished she'd gotten those files on Eileen Barlow before they'd left the CBI. Cho was right that things seemed to have snowballed from there.

"I can't help but think this is somehow centered on Lisbon now," ventured Van Pelt, another thought occurring to her. "You saw how concerned Jane was about her going after Stiles. Lisbon is trying to find Red John, the man who killed her brother. Jane is either helping her, or trying to stop her, and Red John isn't liking any of it very much." She sighed, worry furrowing her brow. "I just wish to hell they'd call."

"We'll know more when we see that house," said Rigsby, trying to comfort them all.

"I hope so," she said.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There wasn't much left of Jane's grandparents' house but smoldering rubble. Van Pelt felt a lump in her throat as she looked at it, and she said a silent prayer that Jane and Lisbon hadn't been in there. Cho parked the SUV on the street near the remaining fire truck, whose firefighters stood by in case the fire flared up again. A couple of police cars were still on the scene as well, to hold back curious onlookers marveling at the giant, charred, smiling face. It was almost as macabre as when they'd seen others on TV, created in blood.

The team was surprised to see the CSI van there, with Brett Partridge and his new assistant busily taking pictures of the black smiley on the lawn. Cho bristled immediately, disliking the guy almost as much as Jane did. The media had also gotten word that the fire might have been related to the infamous serial killer, so a couple of camera crews were already set up for the morning news. Of course, this meant that Kirkland and Agent Broome wouldn't be far behind.

"Dammit," muttered Rigsby, echoing everyone's thoughts.

They reluctantly got out of the vehicle, and while Cho spoke to the cops from Oakland PD, Rigsby approached what was left of the house, noting the strong smell of gasoline. He itched to step inside the remains of the structure, but smoke still rose from its innards, as if taunting him. He could tell from the way the house had collapsed that the fire had likely started from the back of the house.

He glanced up to see Van Pelt gingerly skirting the perimeter, heading for Lisbon's familiar dark blue Mustang. The paint on the side nearest the house was bubbled and scorched by the heat, and she hoped Lisbon's insurance would pay for a new paint job. Other than that, it appeared to be fine, which only made Van Pelt more nervous about why she would have left it there.

_She wouldn't have, _Van Pelt thought_, not If she were alive._

She tried the car door and found it to be locked. The local PD had only bothered to run the tag, apparently.

Silently asking for her boss's forgiveness, Van Pelt picked up a charred two-by-four and bashed in the passenger side window. Rigsby joined her and watched as she unlocked the door and brushed the glass from the seat. She sat in it to open the glove compartment; that's where most cops kept their weapons when they traveled. There was a 9 mm, but no Glock. She couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or a bad. She reached over and popped the lever for the trunk, and she and Rigsby looked inside, both of them grinning at Lisbon's arsenal of rifles and a couple more handguns, but no Glock.

She shut the trunk and the car door, but Rigsby sat in the driver's seat.

"Jane must have been driving," he said. "The seat's not all the way to the steering wheel like it is when Lisbon drives."

Cho joined them, surveying the car before looking back at the destroyed house.

In a rare display of emotion, he echoed Van Pelt's earlier thought: "I hope they weren't in there."

Rigsby and Van Pelt silently concurred.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**Six hours earlier…**_

Jane and Lisbon had found a side window where the fire wasn't licking as high up the side of the house. There were no bars on it, but there was a straight drop to the sidewalk below that went along this side of the house. Between the sidewalk and the house was a hedge that was burning merrily. Lisbon looked down in trepidation as Jane opened the window of the bedroom they were in, her cheeks red with the encroaching heat. They could feel the house beginning to shrivel up and die around them, and both knew there wasn't much time to waste contemplating broken legs. It was either jump or burn to death. Not the best of choices, but there was an obvious winner between the two.

"Here," he said, quickly pulling up the bedspread from the full-sized bed in the room. This had been his mother's bedroom when she was a child, but he pushed back the familiar sadness of loss and focused on Lisbon. "Wrap yourself in this. It should protect you from getting burned going down, and maybe pad your fall some. Try to jump out over the sidewalk and into the garden."

She looked at him fearfully. "What will you do?"

He shrugged. "Land on you?" he asked with a wry smile.

"What if we both jumped at the same time?" she suggested desperately, her voice trembling.

"No, I _really_ might land on you then."

"Here," she said. "At least take the sheet."

"Okay."

He pushed her gently toward the ledge. She was about to jump, when a terrible thought occurred to her.

"What if Red John is down there, waiting to get us if we try to escape?"

"Then we kill him with our bare hands, of course. One life-threatening crisis at a time, woman, if you don't mind."

The sirens were getting closer, and they had agreed that it was better if they could get away from the house without the authorities knowing they'd escaped. It would be best if everyone thought they were dead—especially Red John—at least until they could clear Lisbon's name. Also, now that they knew his identity, they could find the bastard and put an end to this nightmare forever.

Lisbon looked up from the inferno and turned to look at him, kissing his lips softly and looking into his eyes. He could see the reflection of the fire in their watery green depths. She touched his stubbled cheek with an ice-cold palm.

"I love you," she told him, but before he could reply, she jumped.

Jane's breath caught in his throat, both at her words and the suddenness with which she had disappeared from his arms. He leaned out and cringed as she just missed the brightly burning hedge and the hardness of the cement sidewalk. She yelped when she hit the ground, and he heard the rustling of the dense foliage as she disappeared down the steep incline of the yard.

"Lisbon!" he called, but there was no answer.

The floor began to burn beneath Jane's bare feet, and the walls of the house began to creak and crackle as the fire gnawed at its bones. Outside, the flames had now risen to the window ledge, and Jane knew he was out of time. He wrapped the sheet around himself, then jumped out as far as he could. The edge of the cloth fell into the fire, leaving a fiery trail as he rolled into the undergrowth. Rose bushes scratched at his face and hands. Rocks tore at his clothes, bruising his body as he helplessly continued to roll. It was a tree that finally stopped his momentum, and he let out a startled bark as he slammed hard into its trunk. He heard the bone in his arm snap an instant before sharp pain jolted through his body. He rolled to his back, trying to catch his breath.

Then he realized the sheet was on fire, and with a surge of adrenaline, jumped up and dislodged his burning shroud before kicking dirt over it with his bare feet.

Lisbon emerged from the darkness and was at his side almost immediately.

"Jane! Are you all right?"

"Yes," he puffed. "But I think I—I broke my arm. Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah. Just bumps and bruises."

By then, two fire trucks and a score of police cars had arrived, their bright red lights flashing eerily in the night.

"We need to get out of here," she whispered.

Together, they found their way through the trees and bushes, doubling back through neighbors' yards until they emerged at a cross street, Jane holding his broken arm to his side. Dirty, barefoot and aching from their falls, they huddled close and moved as quickly as they could down the dark sidewalk, leaving their would-be funeral pyre behind them.

"Too bad your car keys are on the kitchen counter by our phones," he said morosely, as they stumbled along.

"It'll look more like we're dead if we don't take it, anyway," said Lisbon. She allowed herself about a minute for regrets, then made herself forget about everything unimportant right now. There were other cars, other houses, but not another Jane, and likely not another chance to fool Red John.

It was only a few blocks to the Dimond District, and the welcome lights of a convenience store beckoned to them. The early morning traffic was light, and they j-walked across the main thoroughfare easily enough, Lisbon pushing open the heavy door of the store, while Jane leaned on her with his good arm.

"We've been in an accident," Jane told the startled clerk. He was certain their ragged appearance and harried expressions more than backed up the lie. "Can we use your phone?"

"Uh, sure," said the clerk, handing him a cordless telephone. He caught a whiff of the acrid smell of smoke, and involuntarily took a step back.

Jane tried to recall the number he needed from the huge data storage of his mind, but his normally quick brain was foggy with pain and the aftershock of their ordeal.

"Who are you calling?" Lisbon prompted, thinking it would be Cho.

The number he sought suddenly occurred to him, and he began rapidly pushing buttons.

"You're not gonna like this," he told her as the line began to ring, "but trust me, okay? I think this is the best place in the world to seek refuge."

He brought her head to his chest and kissed her forehead. "Yes," he said when sleepy sounding woman picked up on the other end. "I know it's early, but I need to speak to Bret Stiles. It's an emergency..."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**Later**_**…**

Brett Partridge wandered over to Lisbon's abandoned Mustang, took a few pictures, and turned to the team.

"Why are _you _here?" asked Rigsby. "There haven't been any bodies found that we know of. This is just an arson case—not your area of expertise."

"I'm trying to deduce why Agent Lisbon's car was here, but no Agent Lisbon," said Partridge. "And since Red John seems to have had a hand in this, it stands to reason—"

"No," protested Van Pelt. "This proves nothing. Unless I see a body, I won't believe it."

"What about Jane?" asked Partridge, and there was no mistaking the barely-contained glee in his voice. "He and Agent Lisbon seem to be joined at the hip. If she was here, I'll bet-"

"Call us if you find anything," said Cho dismissively, and he steered the team to walk ahead of him toward their SUV. He felt the sudden urgency to get out of there before Kirkland showed up.

Acting suitably offended at Cho's rudeness, Partridge went back to his assistant, and the pair began chatting with the Oakland cops, leaning against their squad cars, their backs to the smoking building. As Cho continued down the sidewalk, he spied a piece of cloth in the bushes. He parted the greenery and bent over to see a singed white bed sheet. It must have come from the house, but how? He squatted down to pick it up, and it was then he saw the imprint of a bare foot in the soft earth. Its size indicated that it was likely made by an adult male.

"Hey, Cho. You coming?" called Rigsby from the SUV. Cho wadded up the sheet and kicked it further into the foliage out of plain sight, moving his foot over the print to conceal it.

Jane was out there somewhere, and from the looks of things, he and probably Lisbon too were in big trouble. And though it rankled a bit to be left out of the loop, Cho couldn't help feeling there must be a very good reason for it. Well, he would help them whether they liked it or not, but the first step would have to be finding them.

He stood up and got back on the sidewalk, striding quickly now to catch up with his team.

**A/N: Phew! Did you survive? Did it challenge your credulity too much? Please let us know. More action ahead, and waterbaby certainly has her work cut out for her after the mess I left, lol. Thanks as always for reading!**


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. Unfortunately my job, uni work and family have to take precedence over fanfiction, and I appreciate your understanding.

**Chapter 10**

Lisbon hadn't been sure about the wisdom of the plan when he'd first suggested it, and she was even less sure when the car pulled up beside the convenience store. Long and sleek and jet-black, she just couldn't help but be reminded of a funeral car, although that might have been due to all the death she'd been surrounded by in the last few weeks.

She decided not to mention that to Jane.

"Are you ready?" he asked her.

"No. Are you?"

"No."

Battered and bruised, they lurched towards the car, Jane wincing every now and then when he moved the wrong way and pain shot up his broken arm.

"You need to go to the hospital," she said, helping him into the back seat, and trying not to listen to his whimpers of discomfort.

"Great idea," he said, sarcastically. "How many times have we tracked a suspect down because they were stupid enough to go to a hospital? Do you want to get yourself thrown in jail?"

He regretted his tone when her face fell, and she averted her eyes as the car began to move. He should be thanking his lucky stars that she was OK, not giving her the third degree. He sighed, and with a finger under her chin, gently turned her head back towards him.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I know you're only trying to take care of me. But seeing as we're trying to outrun not only the FBI and Homeland Security, but a serial killer as well, it might be safer to stay off the grid for now."

She sighed too. "I know, you're right," she said, leaning over to kiss his forehead, but accidentally jostling his injured arm in the process, causing him to let out another yelp. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." She moved herself guiltily away from him, for fear of inflicting further harm.

"It's OK," he grunted, through clenched teeth.

"I hate seeing you like this," she whispered to him, but then grinned. "You're such a baby when you're hurt."

He gave a tiny smile. "Better for it to happen to me than you. I wouldn't be able to bear the sight of you in pain. I'd be no help to you whatsoever."

"Stiles is bound to have some medical facilities at Visualize," she pointed out. "Wouldn't want his followers going outside the fold for medical attention. Maybe they can patch you up."

"Knowing Stiles, he might be happier just to let me suffer," he said, glumly.

They arrived at the compound within the hour, and were immediately taken to Stiles' quarters. Lisbon twisted her hands nervously as they walked. The last time she had encountered Bret Stiles, she'd been holding a gun to his head, and now here they were asking him for help. The hypocrisy of it all made her face flame.

Beside her, Jane plodded along, cradling his injured limb in his good one, and cursing under his breath. The repeated motif of the Visualize symbol loomed out at them at regular intervals, and she averted her eyes from it as much as she could. In her book, it ran second only to the Red John smiley face as the creepiest image she knew.

Despite the earliness of the hour, Bret Stiles was fully dressed when they were shown into his study. He rose from his desk as they entered, arms spread wide in welcome.

"Patrick!" He greeted Jane warmly as though they were the best of friends. "And Agent Lisbon-" she forced herself to hold her ground as he turned toward her. "A pleasure as always."

She saw a little twinkle in his eye as he said it, and she knew he too was thinking about their last encounter. She'd had every right to believe that he might have been Red John, but now it had turned out that he wasn't, she couldn't help feeling slightly embarrassed. Stiles slowly looked them both over taking in all their injuries, their limited clothing, and their exhaustion.

"You two clearly have quite the story to tell," he said. "I'm very interested to hear it."

Lisbon and Jane exchanged glances. They had debated on the drive over about how much they ought to tell Stiles about the night's events. Clearly they would need to offer some reason for their visit, but despite having cleared Stiles of being Red John himself, there was no guarantee that he wasn't still associated with the killer in some way.

"We were in a house fire," Jane eventually replied. "And as far as I can tell, it was no accident."

The older man raised his eyebrows. "Any ideas about who the culprit was?"

There was another brief pause. "One or two," said Jane.

Bret Stiles shook his head a little, letting out a low chuckle. "You two are holding out on me," he said. "I have a feeling that there's a great deal more to this tale, but I simply can't ignore it when my guests arrive in such a miserable state."

He beckoned forward a man Lisbon hadn't noticed before, standing half-concealed in the shadows.

"Bring our guests some warm clothes," he instructed him. "And page Jacqueline."

"Who?" demanded Jane, rather rudely.

"Someone needs to set that arm of yours, Patrick," said Stiles, gesturing at Jane's injury. "Dr Jacqueline Thompson is our on call doctor for this evening. She should probably look you both over."

"I'm perfectly fine," said Lisbon.

"On the contrary, Agent Lisbon, you are clearly in shock," countered Stiles, smoothly. "You both are. I have allowed you onto my property in the middle of the night and without any satisfactory reason because I was told you needed help. Now let me give it to you."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Agent Kirkland watched as the Oakland Arson Squad slowly picked through the remains of what had once been a two-storey home now reduced to cinders. Uniforms had set up a perimeter around the house and were canvassing the neighbours and other onlookers to try and find out what had happened.

There was no doubt in Kirkland's mind that this had been the work of Red John, and while he preferred this new take on the smiley-face rather more than one painted in blood, he'd still felt a certain chill inside him at the sight of it. But if there was one thing he knew about Red John, it was that he didn't do things at random. He had targeted this house for a reason, and he thought he knew what.

The car in the drive was registered to Agent Lisbon. Some digging by the DHS geeks told him that Patrick Jane owned the house. Neither of them had been seen or heard from since yesterday, before Reede Smith's murder. He had proof that Jane at least had been at the scene, and he'd be willing to put money on it that Lisbon had been there too. It was a well-known fact that Jane disliked firearms, and an even better known fact that the two of them were rarely out of each other's sight. Smith hadn't exactly been known for his delicacy about sensitive matters, which was part of the reason he'd been so good at his job, and Lisbon hadn't been thinking straight since her brother's murder. He'd seen her himself at the crime scene. It wouldn't have taken much for her to snap.

Most of the evidence was circumstantial but it seemed to indicate that Agent Lisbon had been responsible for Reede Smith's untimely death. And who could be better to help her escape capture than her partner, who had pissed off countless government officials and kept his job and had wriggled out of a murder charge without breaking a sweat?

If this had been any other case, he'd be on the phone organizing an arrest warrant right now. But it didn't explain why they were gazing upon the charred remainders of a house bearing a Red John calling card. Arson had never been part of the serial killer's M.O before this. He'd always preferred the more personal approach.

"What a mess," observed Agent Broome from beside him as they watched the team pick their way through the rubble. "Do you think they were in there?"

"I hope not," he said, and meant it. Despite their somewhat volatile relationship, he would never wish any more ill fortune on Patrick Jane, who in anyone's estimation, should have been through enough. And he had always been fond of Lisbon.

"Sure would make things a whole lot simpler," said Broome. "Don't have to worry about messing around with courts and hearings if they're dead."

"We don't even know for sure yet that either of them had anything to do with Smith," said Kirkland, calmly. "Or what this has to do with Red John."

Broome gestured to the smouldering smiley. "This doesn't prove anything and you know it. I've read the Red John case files, and fire isn't his style. It was probably just some stoned kids out for a thrill."

Kirkland didn't answer. His gut feeling was that the smiley-face was the real deal. Anyone who knew anything about Patrick Jane knew about his obsession with Red John, and it made sense to him that it would work both ways. It was just too much of a coincidence that a Red John symbol would appear at a house owned by Patrick Jane, which he had been more than likely staying in at the time.

"Fan out!" The leader of the arson squad bellowed orders at his team. "Agent Kirkland says there may have been people in the house when it caught fire. You know what to look for."

Out of the corner of his eye, Kirkland saw Brett Partridge and his assistant loading their equipment back into the van. He supposed that the lack of any bodies meant it had made their presence unnecessary. If Jane and Lisbon had been here during the fire…well there probably wouldn't be enough left of them to need a gurney. A few plastic bags would suffice.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho waited until they were back in the car and safely away from the prying eyes and ears of Kirkland and co., before he told the other two what he'd found.

"Part of a sheet and a footprint?" Van Pelt repeated. "So they must have made it out!" She exchanged joyful smiles with Rigsby.

"Well, most likely, Jane did," Cho pointed out, tamping down her enthusiasm slightly. "I didn't see any sign of the boss."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"He wouldn't have left her there," said Van Pelt at once. "I'm sure of it."

"The place would have gone up fast," Rigsby, their resident arson expert chipped in. "If they got separated somehow, they might have bailed out of different windows."

Nobody wanted to be the one to point out the other possible scenario, that the boss might not have made it, and that Jane had to leave her there to save himself.

"We're not going to know anything for sure until they've finished searching the house," said Cho, breaking the heavy silence. "I've spoken to the Oakland P.D to make sure we get the report before the FBI and Kirkland get their hands on it. And when we get back, we need to start digging into those Eileen Barlow files. If we're going to be able to help them, we need to stay ahead of the FBI."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Nobody but Patrick Jane could have convinced Lisbon to allow herself to be poked and prodded at by a cult doctor. No amount of pressure from Stiles or even Dr. Thompson herself had been enough to make her do it, but Jane, with his arm in a sling and slurring slightly from the painkillers, had begged her.

"Please Teresa," he said, fixing her with those sad, soulful eyes. "The doctor says I should rest. How can I rest if I'm worried about you?"

How could she say no to a request like that?

To be fair, Dr. Thompson was efficient and as good as any doctor she'd ever been to. She would even consider going to her again in the future, if it weren't for the small matter of her Visualize membership. But she still resented the whole thing.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine," she said, jiggling her foot irritably, as the doctor examined a small lump that had formed on her head.

"Seeing as I'm the one with the medical degree, I think I'll be the judge of that, Agent Lisbon."

"And where exactly did you study?" Lisbon snapped. "The University of Cult Medicine?"

Thompson gave a little smile. "Johns Hopkins, actually."

"Oh."

Sitting in a chair by the door, Jane stifled a laugh, and while Thompson was reaching behind her for a dressing, Lisbon took the opportunity to throw him a scathing look.

"_This is all your fault!" _she mouthed, angrily.

"_I love you,"_ he mouthed back, delighting in her shocked expression.

Probably not the most romantic moment to make such a confession, but just seeing her there giving the doctor hell while clearly getting more and more annoyed with every passing moment reminded him of all the times she'd looked at _him_ that way. He was pretty sure that was why he'd fallen for her in the first place.

And they had almost died today.

Lisbon forced her attention back onto Thompson as the doctor carefully applied the dressing to a nasty scrape on her arm. "Putting aside the issue of my credentials for the moment, Agent Lisbon, for the most part I agree that you're in fairly good shape. Although I suspect you might have a mild concussion, so you too should take it easy for a while."

Bret Stiles entered the room, a smug grin on his lips.

"How is the patient?" he asked.

"Cranky as all hell," said Jane cheerfully, chuckling as Lisbon glared at him once more.

"I actually meant you, Patrick," said Stiles, nodding to the sling.

"I'll live."

"That's good news," he said, courteously. "Once you're ready, might we have a word in my office, Patrick? Privately?" he added, pointedly.

"Certainly, Bret," Jane answered. "But seeing as I'm going to tell Lisbon everything anyway, she might as well come too."

"Really?" Stiles looked from one to the other with interest. "And here I thought you were a man who liked to keep things to himself."

"I am. But I don't like to keep secrets from her anymore."

He felt Lisbon's eyes on him and knew she was smiling at him. If they were alone in the room he knew she would have said something about that; had been waiting to hear something like it for many years now. But he hadn't been ready before. Now he knew who Red John was. The end was coming close. And once all this madness was over, _they_ could begin, if she would still have him.

"Well, in that case, who am I to stand in your way?" Stiles withdrew from the room, with Dr. Thompson at his heels, closing the door with a click.

She was still sitting on the examination couch, fingers gingerly inspecting the lump on her head.

"I have to say, this isn't how I expected the evening to turn out," she said. "Fire and cults and near-death and all before five o'clock in the morning. I think I want to go back to bed."

He sighed. "I doubt there'll be a bed to go back _to_, after this. Or a house."

Her eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Jane," she said, gently. "I could tell you had a lot of happy memories of that place."

"So I guess we shouldn't have been so surprised that he found us there," he attempted a jovial tone. "We know how much he likes to take away things that make me happy." He blew out a long sigh and got to his feet. "Come on, Bret's waiting for us."

She eased herself off the couch, and walked over to where he was waiting for her. As he turned to open the door, she slipped an arm around him and rested her head on the shoulder of his unbroken arm.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, again. "It's just not fair that you have to lose so much."

His hand fell from the doorknob and he wrapped his good arm around her waist, squeezing her lovingly.

"No, it's not," he agreed. "In fact, to borrow a phrase of yours…it's complete sheep dip." He felt her small body shake with laughter or sobs, he couldn't be sure which. "But he failed this time. I'm still here. And I still have the one thing that makes me happier than anything else in the world: you."

She lifted her head, and he saw there were no tears glimmering in her eyes. So, it had been laughter then. Good. He couldn't stand it when she cried.

"So," she said, coyly. "Was a doctor's office really the best place you could think of to tell me you loved me?"

"Beats a burning building, don't you think?" he countered. "Or an abandoned warehouse in Vegas," he added, casually.

Her eyes narrowed. "So you _did_ remember that? I knew all that 'hyped-up' stuff was crap."

"I was a coward."

She brought their lips together in another kiss fuelled by ten years of waiting for him, worrying about him, and loving him. She didn't think she would ever get enough of his kisses; they made her feel like at least one thing was going right in her life.

"And now?" she asked, gently stroking his jawline.

"I'm still a coward," he said, and they exchanged a loving smile. "But I love you too much to pretend I don't anymore. No matter what happens."

"I think I got to that point about two years ago," she said. "Welcome to my world."

They shared another kiss, this time longer, and more passionate. He wanted to pull her closer, but couldn't and cursed his broken arm.

"So I think we can agree that tonight hasn't been a total loss," she said, after she'd caught her breath. "We've established that I love you, and you love me, and from what I remember, the first part of the evening was pretty fantastic."

He smiled that devastating smile, and winked. "Blew your mind, did I?"

"Don't get too cocky, old man," she said. "I've wanted you for ten years. Tonight was just the preview. The day this is over, I'm going to take you home, lock the door, and _then_ you'll see the main event."

"Why, Agent Lisbon. So forward." His voice had lowered to a seductive purr, and she tried to ignore the fact that it had sounded exactly the same way while they'd been in bed.

"Too much for you to handle?" she teased.

"I'll give it my best shot." He removed his arm from around her waist, and took her hand instead. "Come on, we've got a date with a cult leader."

"Maybe we shouldn't—"she said uneasily, trying to extricate her hand from his, but he held it tight.

"Don't be stupid. Bret won't mind; in fact he's probably already guessed."

"You think?"

"Of course. He's a pretty intuitive man, you know. Why do you think he was on my list?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane had spent the time while his arm was being tended to figuring out what to say to Stiles when he inevitably asked again about what had brought them here. Partridge had been a member of Visualize, he knew, so Stiles must know him well. Perhaps he was the key to getting him that final showdown he'd been itching for.

It was strange that in his mind's eye he was still picturing Red John as some faceless, demonic entity, even though he now knew exactly what he looked like. Brett Partridge. Red John. They still just didn't seem to go together in his mind. And when he thought of all the times they'd been in the same room together, to think he could have simply reached out and choked the life out of him probably twenty times over by now, oh it made his blood boil.

This could have been over years ago. But he didn't regret the years he'd spent at the CBI. The CBI had given him an income, had given him friends, had given him _Lisbon. _She wouldn't have loved him if he'd been rotting away in prison for all this time, and her love was the best thing that had happened to him since the murders.

Stiles received them in his study, quirking an eyebrow at their clasped hands, but making no comment, confirming Jane's theory that he was already well aware of the change in their relationship. He found that this thought distressed him less than he thought it would. In fact, it actually felt pretty good to be able to show her off like this, for even one person to look at them and see she was his. Theoretically speaking, of course, she'd deck him one if he ever let her in on _that_ particular train of thought.

"So Patrick, I believe I've been patient enough," Stiles began, clearly keen to get down to business. "Why, of all the places in the world, did you come here seeking sanctuary? I have a feeling you're not seeking spiritual enlightenment."

"No, I'm not," said Jane, ignoring Teresa's fleeting glance. "But seeing as you brought up the religious topic, are you familiar with the term, _devil's advocate_?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sun had fully risen over Oakland before the arson team completed their preliminary search. Kirkland stood leaning against the FBI vehicle, watching the people comb through the ashes, the neighbours gawking from behind the crime scene tape. The sound of helicopter blades from a local news chopper beat the air, as well as the clicking of camera shutters and the voices of reporters doing live crosses, or pestering members of the CSU as they walked back and forth from their van.

The lead officer approached the two federal agents as his team crawled over the ruined house like ants, taking samples and snapping photographs.

"From what I can see, the fire started at the front of the house on the bottom floor and spread from there," he said. "It was definitely deliberate, because obviously gasoline has been used as an accelerant, but you'll be pleased to know that we haven't found any human remains as yet. We're going to go through every inch of the place and you'll have our full report by the end of the day."

Agent Broome, who'd been taking a call on his cell, came back over to them at that point, and Kirkland relayed the information to him.

"So they weren't in the house when it went up?" asked Broome.

"Too early to call just yet," said the arson cop, shaking his head. "It's a big house, and sometimes people who die in house fires are found in pretty small pieces. We'll keep you updated if anything turns up."

"Great," grumbled Broome, as the man shuffled away. "Now I have to call the director and tell him that our prime suspect in Agent Smith's murder has gone and incinerated herself. The press are going to love this."

His cell phone was still in his hand, and he kept muttering to himself as he punched in a number and trotted a few steps away as the line connected.

Kirkland reached in his pocket for his keys. The continued absence of Lisbon's CBI team was concerning him. This was a Red John scene; normally they would be onto this immediately, with Jane and Lisbon leading the charge. But he hadn't seen any sign of them here when he and Broome had pulled up. Unless of course they had come and gone before anyone else had gotten here. That was possible. But why the secrecy? Were they involved in this somehow? Did they know something about the whereabouts of their colleagues that they weren't telling?

He had to get to the CBI right away and find out. He had no chance of getting anything out of Agent Cho he knew, but Agents Rigsby and Van Pelt didn't have the same years of experience and implacable poker face. If he could convince them that he was trying to help Jane and Lisbon and not arrest them, he might be in with a chance.

But they had several hours' head start on him, they'd be back in Sacramento already, and the traffic would be heavy moving back into the Capital with the beginning of the working day so near. He had to leave right now.

He flicked a glance over his shoulder at Broome, wondering whether to confide in him about this new line of inquiry, but decided against it. Cho and the others were already suspicious enough around him without introducing somebody else into the mix. Besides, it would be useful to have someone remain at the scene in case there was any news.

He walked to his car, ignoring the reporters that sprang out at him eagerly, and gunned the engine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Back at HQ, Cho and the team were already engrossed in the Barlow files, which had arrived from the archives just after they'd gotten back from Oakland. Each had their cell phone poised on their desk, just in case Jane or Lisbon rang. Every passing hour made it less and less likely that their friends would make contact but they had to hold onto what little hope they had.

"She was a carny like Jane," Van Pelt said, making a note of the information. "Maybe they knew each other on the circuit. And Red John killed her. That might be what set him off."

"Can't be," said Cho. "Red John cases always tear him up, especially when it's somebody he knows. But the boss was handling it the same way she handles any case. It wasn't until after we closed it that she started acting weird."

"Maybe she was an ex-girlfriend or something," Rigsby suggested.

"What?" he said defensively, as the other two shot him strange looks.

"His wife can't have been the only one he's ever been with."

He himself had been a jock in high school so he'd gotten plenty of girls, but he was sure Jane must have been even more of a ladies' man back in the day. Of course, he'd never dare to actually ask him. Anything about Jane's past was pretty much a taboo subject; well, at least for anybody except Lisbon.

Van Pelt snickered. "I don't think so Wayne. Jane told us he and his wife left the carnival when he was what, eighteen? According to this, Eileen would have only been ten by then. So, not likely."

"It was just an idea," said Rigsby, grumpily, casting his copy of the file aside. "If they made it out of the house, where do you think they went?" he asked his colleagues.

"It would have to be somewhere nobody would think to look for them," said Van Pelt, thoughtfully.

"Which, knowing Jane, could be anywhere."

"They didn't have a vehicle, they couldn't have gone far," Cho said, tossing his file away too and rubbing his temple in a rare display of fatigue.

"Someone might have picked them up," Rigsby suggested.

"I don't think so," said Van Pelt. "If they're pretending to be dead, who would they call?"

"Other than us, you mean?" said Rigsby. He again received raised eyebrows from each of his colleagues. "Oh come on, we're all thinking it; I'm just saying it. Jane barely trusts _us _as far as he can throw us, who else on Earth would he approach for help with a Red John thing?"

"I think we should go and talk to Eileen's family," said Cho, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. "Maybe they'll be able to shed some light on all this."

"They won't talk to us; we're cops," said Van Pelt. "Without Jane it'll be a total waste of time."

One of the features unique to Kimball Cho was his ability to convey displeasure without words. It took nothing but a brief glance in Grace's direction for her to swallow any further protests and get up too, holstering her gun. Cho would make one hell of a team leader one day, she thought, as she followed him through the bullpen. At least he would be if he could ever be convinced to leave Lisbon's side. Cho and the boss had been working together for close to thirteen years now; he had seen several agents come and go from the SCU, rising through the ranks, but as far as Grace knew, he had never sought promotion for himself. He had stayed at the boss's right hand day in and day out, and never hesitated to step up when she'd needed him.

It was hard on all of them, the way they were being cut out like this, but it must be doubly difficult for Cho to be shunted aside after so many years of loyalty. But he never said a word. And she knew he'd still lay down his life for Lisbon, even now.

She just hoped that he wouldn't have to.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bret Stiles surveyed Jane over the tips of his tented fingers, and Lisbon felt her breath catch in her throat.

"You are a puzzling man, Patrick," he finally said. "You sit here in front of me with a broken arm, and a beautiful woman at your side, and yet you still wish to press your luck further?"

Jane leaned comfortably back in his chair, never once breaking eye contact with the other man.

"You and I both know, Bret, that this won't be over until I meet with Red John face to face. And I believe you are the man who can make that happen."

The tension in the room was so thick she could almost feel it. She looked from Jane to Stiles and forced herself to suppress a shudder. Their postures were both relaxed, their voices light and cordial, but the intensity in their eyes indicated just how seriously they were taking this conversation.

"What are you proposing?"

"Get in contact with Red John, arrange a meeting, and make sure he shows up. I'll do the rest."

"And what exactly do I say to make him agree to this arrangement?" asked Stiles calmly. "After all, he's a busy man. It takes a lot for him to take time out of his schedule."

"You offer him something he can't refuse. I'm still alive and I shouldn't be. The two of us in a room together, one-on-one; he couldn't wish for anything else."

Stiles finally broke their impromptu staring competition, cutting his eyes to Lisbon.

"You're risking a great deal, Patrick. I hope you're aware of that."

A pause. "I am."

"Would it not be simpler just to give up on this revenge nonsense and get on with your life?"

"Not as long as that bastard is still breathing," said Jane. "We both know you have the power to do this Bret. Set it up."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Van Pelt had been right. The only thing they'd achieved from the trip to the carnival grounds was to waste a tank of gas. They would have had more luck quizzing the elephant on Jane's and Lisbon whereabouts compared to the vague, unhelpful answers they got from Eileen's relatives.

Cho got back into the SUV and slammed the door hard behind him. They'd wasted so much time already, and they were still no closer to finding out what had happened to Jane and Lisbon. It seemed that everywhere they looked they were meeting nothing but dead ends.

He and Van Pelt were speeding down the dirt road away from the carnival grounds when her cell phone burst to life with a call from Rigsby. The report from the arson squad had just arrived with the news that no human remains had been found in the house. In fact, the fire had burned so quickly and savagely that very little had survived at all, although a tech had managed to dig up a few items, including a tarnished set of handcuffs, blistered and warped by the heat, which had been found in what appeared to be a bedroom.

He didn't want to know what Jane and the boss had been doing with those.

At the very least, he and the team were now satisfied that their friends had managed to survive the blaze. That was the good news. The bad news was that the FBI and DHS would soon know it too. As soon as it was known that Jane and Lisbon weren't dead, warrants would be obtained for their arrests within the hour and a full-scale manhunt would ensue until they could be brought in for questioning. The FBI would not let this go, and without a means of contact there was no way he could warn them. Every cop in California would be looking for them soon. He could only hope that they'd managed to get themselves somewhere safe.

xxxxxxxxxx

There were few cars on this stretch of road, and the sun, high in the sky made the landscape shimmer under its heat. It was uncomfortably warm in the SUV, and Van Pelt fiddled with the dial to try and get the air conditioning to work as Cho drove on.

"So what are we going to do now?" she asked, after several fruitless attempts to get the system to come to life.

"We keep digging," answered Cho, steadily.

"For what?" Van Pelt persisted. "It doesn't matter how many angles we work this from, we're still not seeing the bigger picture."

Cho grunted, but silently acknowledged that she was probably right. Without further clues and information, they would not get any closer to tracking down Jane and Lisbon before the Feds did, and they were running out of places to look.

"I just don't know what we're missing," Van Pelt fretted, and gave a rueful smile. "The ironic part is that this would normally be when we'd turn to Jane for some crazy insight."

"Jane isn't here," said Cho, unnecessarily. "We've got to do this ourselves."

"Well, do you have any idea how we're going to do that?" Van Pelt snapped. "Because I don't."

The other car hit them before they even saw it coming. With a screeching of tires and the smell of burning rubber, the impact slammed into the back of the SUV, jolting them both violently forward in their seats. Van Pelt squealed as her seat belt forced her back against the seat again, bashing her head hard against the headrest. Cho fought to regain control of the car, cursing and wrenching the steering wheel to try to get them driving straight again.

"What the hell was that?" Van Pelt shrieked, looking in horror at the rear windshield, which had disappeared in a sparkling river of broken glass.

"I don't know. Some moron who wasn't looking where he was going."

Cho glanced at the rear view mirror. A dark blue SUV was just visible within the frame, with a dented front bumper. It was too far away to see the driver, but he was almost certain that it had been the car to hit them.

"The boss is going to freak when she sees what's happened," said Van Pelt, visibly shaken by the incident, but working hard to keep her voice steady. "She loves this car."

Cho didn't respond, his eye drawn back to the mirror, where the SUV appeared to be getting closer and closer. It was right up in back of them now…it wasn't slowing down.

"Hold on!" he commanded Van Pelt, twisting the wheel to try and swerve out of the way, but it was too late. They were hit again from the back with a loud crunch of steel.

"What's going on?" shrieked Van Pelt, terrified.

"I think somebody's trying to kill us."

"Who would do that?"

"Do you want me to stop and ask?"

Even in such a situation as this, Cho was still able to keep a cool head, but the blue SUV wasn't finished yet. It picked up speed once again, but put on its blinker and sailed alongside them as though to overtake, but as soon as it pulled level with them, rammed them once again, sending their car careening off the road and down a small embankment.

The SUV rolled over and over in a whirl of crunching metal and shattering glass. Van Pelt and Cho were thrown around in their seats like rag dolls as the car rocketed down the embankment, narrowly missing a nearby tree, before eventually coming to a stop on its side a few feet away from the road.

Van Pelt was unconscious, her head bleeding profusely from where she'd hit it on the dash. Cho, feeling as though his entire body had beaten with sledgehammers, reached painfully out to check her for a pulse. Weak, but there. _Thank God._

He tried to open the door but it had been so badly damaged in the crash, it didn't move an inch. They had to get out of this car as soon as possible. In the likely event that the fuel line had cracked it could blow at any moment, but his head was still spinning from the rollercoaster ride off the road, that he wasn't sure he was even strong enough to get himself out, let alone Van Pelt, who remained unresponsive no matter how many times he called her name.

Who would do this? And why?

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The blue SUV glided smoothly to a stop at the side of the road. Three men exited it and inspected the CBI vehicle lying on its side amongst the undergrowth. There was no movement as far as they could see, and they knew they only had a matter of minutes before it would be too late.

"Get them out of there."

Brett Partridge waved a careless hand and the two men flanking him immediately stepped forward to do his bidding. "We need them alive. Lucky you've worked plenty of these kinds of scenes before, eh Thomas?"

"That's right sir," said McAllister deferentially. "And I bet Gale here has seen a few more of these in his time, too."

"Naturally," said Partridge, his thin lips twisted into a cruel smile. "I knew you two would be the best men for the job."

"With all due respect sir," Gale Bertram piped up. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to let them die?"

It probably would be simpler, thought Partridge, as his two followers picked their way through the carnage, but far less fun. And with his favourite toy, Patrick Jane, now burning in hell, he had to take his fun where he could get it.

The sound of the ringing cell phone sounded odd in the remote surroundings. He stepped away to muffle the grunts and curses coming from the scene of the crash, as the two struggled to pull the fearless agents from the wreckage.

"Mr Stiles," he said, coolly, when the line clicked on. "What can I do for you?"

**A/N: I really hoped you liked this.**

**As always, my thanks go to Donna, the most wonderful partner ever, who remains supportive and understanding even when I take forever to send her my chapters. It is an absolute honour to write with you.**


	11. Conclusion

A/N: Well, here it is at last, the ending of this fic. And just in time for the season premier too. This is a monster of a chapter, but I hope I've managed to give a satisfactory conclusion. I caution that there is some blood and violence, but then, how else could the hunt for Red John end?

Thanks for sticking with us and for your fabulous reviews. Now, to the conclusion.

**Chapter 11: Conclusion**

While they waited for him to arrange Jane's meeting with Brett Partridge, Stiles had seen to it that Jane and Lisbon were given the best rooms available in the Visualize complex, a two-room suite reserved for visiting Visualize dignitaries. Jane was anxious—they both were—but the pain medication Dr. Thompson had given him was causing him to become so helplessly drowsy that Lisbon had to threaten him bodily harm if he didn't lie down for awhile. He sat down on the king size bed amidst the opulent décor of the suite, and Lisbon helped him lie on his back, pulling up the quilt at the end of the bed to cover him.

"Let me just rest my eyes for a minute," he told her. "Don't let me fall asleep."

"Sure," she lied. If he could catch a few winks before they met with the serial killer, more power to him. He would need all the alertness he could muster to go through with the most dangerous, most foolhardy scheme he'd ever come up with. And that was saying a lot.

She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her fingers soothingly through his hair a moment, brushing back the fall of curls from his forehead before kissing him there sweetly.

"You've always looked good in blue," he teased sleepily. "You should wear it more often.

She looked down at herself, grimacing at the borrowed blue polo shirt emblazoned with the Visualize eye and khaki pants they both wore. At least their clothes didn't smell like smoke, she thought, though that was almost preferable.

"This damn thing gives me the creeps. I feel like my shirt is watching me."

Jane chuckled softly. His eyes drifted shut.

"How can you laugh at a time like this?" she said, sounding scandalized.

"It's the drugs," he said sheepishly. "I'm about to confront the man who killed my family, and I am feeling nothing but good right now."

"Well, I feel nothing but dread."

"Don't worry, Teresa," he said weakly. "My plan will work, I promise…"

"You're in no position to promise crap. Stiles could be Partridge's right-hand man, for all we know. He might just be saving us here so his pal Red John can rush over and finish us off once and for all."

But there was no reply; he was out like a light.

"Jane?"

She shook her head, then leaned down to lightly kiss his sensual, full lips good-night.

At that moment, a knock came on the outer door of the suite, and Lisbon rushed to get to it before it awoke Jane. She shut the door to the bedroom softly and walked quickly through the sitting area to the door.

It was Stiles.

"Aw, Teresa. Nice to see you've settled in," he said, indicating her clothing with a slight, mischievous smile. He had to know how much it rankled for her, a relatively good Catholic, to be wearing the garb from a presumed cult. Her hand went unconsciously to the crucifix at her neck, which made his grin widen even more.

"Thanks. Did you set things up?" she asked, getting to the point.

"Might I come in?" he asked, amused.

She stepped aside. "It's your place," she pointed out.

They sat across from each other in opposing chairs, a small coffee table between them, one of them extremely uncomfortable, despite the cushiness of their seats. He noticed how she kept glancing worriedly at the closed bedroom door.

"Would you feel more comfortable with a gun in your hand?" he asked wryly.

"Yes, I would," she said truthfully.

"I apologize that I don't have one available for you. We are a peaceful religion."

She rolled her eyes, remembering all the shady things she knew they must be involved with, along with the murders she and her team had investigated involving members of this _peaceful religion._

"I take it Patrick is resting," he continued, his own eyes on the closed bedroom door.

"Yes." Her voice was almost too clipped to be polite. She absolutely despised small talk, especially at a time like this. "I'd like to let him sleep as long as he can," she said warningly.

"Of course. I'll let you pass on the message I received from our mutual friend." She blanched at his blasphemous characterization of the murdering bastard.

"I told him just what Patrick asked," Stiles continued, "that I was holding you both in custody for him, pretending to be your friend when you sought my protection. He'll be here later this evening to see for himself, to talk to my _prisoners._"

Lisbon's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that what we really are to you here?"

He shook his head almost sadly, sighing in mock disappointment. "Not at all, Agent Lisbon. You're welcome to leave anytime, with my blessing. But I must say, it truly hurts that you still don't trust me, after all we've been through."

"Ha," she said with a small sniff of disbelief. "Jane figured out Red John had once been a member of Visualize. You obviously know his true identity, and could have turned him in to the authorities years ago, saving many innocent lives. So no, I don't trust you, despite Jane's newly arrived blind faith in you. It was not long ago he suspected _you_ could have been the bastard yourself."

Stiles laughed heartily. "Me? Why, I'm flattered. That explains why you arrived here not long ago, guns blazing. Believe it or not, Agent Lisbon, I have nothing but disdain and horror for the atrocities Red John has committed. I don't condone anything he's done since leaving Visualize."

"Then, why—" she began, but the answer dawned on her all at once. "He has something on you," she said, her heart accelerating at her insight.

"Patrick has taught you well," he conceded. This time his sigh was genuine, though full of resignation.

Lisbon waited for him to continue, her body tense and unnaturally still as she literally sat on the edge of her seat.

"He has my son," Bret Stiles confessed, and Lisbon gasped involuntarily.

"_Your son_? What do you mean he _has_ him? Red John has kidnapped him?"

Stiles's blue eyes had lost their mischievous sparkle, and he suddenly appeared to be tired and old beyond his years. "No. Worse, I'm afraid. He has his mind, and I'm quite sure he owns his soul as well."

"You could have called us in long ago," she told him. "We might have been able to help you."

"Red John would have slit his throat before I put down the phone," said Stiles matter-of-factly.

Lisbon's thoughts were racing. Foremost in her mind was whether or not he was telling her the truth. All the tricks she'd learned in her training, as well as nearly a decade at Jane's side, were telling her he was not lying, that Red John had mentally enslaved this man's child.

"I think you'd better start from the beginning," said Lisbon gravely.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho awoke to a cotton mouth and a pounding headache. He squinted against the light emanating from a window at the top of a high ceiling, and he absently determined it was late afternoon. He lay in a ten by ten foot room with white walls and green shag carpeting that smelled musty beneath his nose. A five-gallon bucket was placed conveniently in a corner. He sat up gingerly, mentally cataloguing his aches and pains as annoying, though not life-threatening. He was pleased to find that he wasn't even bound or gagged. Whoever had him must have felt confident he wouldn't escape.

_Van Pelt._

With a jolt, the events surrounding the SUV's crash came rushing back, and he looked vainly around the unfurnished room for his companion. It froze his heart to imagine her dead, to have to tell Rigsby he'd done nothing to save her. But Cho quickly shook his head to clear it of such negative thoughts. It would do no good to dwell on the morose when he needed to keep his head clear, to figure a way out of this.

"Welcome back, Mr. Cho," came a disembodied voice from the vicinity of the ceiling. Cho immediately located a speaker in the ceiling several feet above his head, along with the smaller, darker circle that was no doubt a camera.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, looking directly into it, his eyes angry dark slits.

There was a soft chuckle, then the voice came again, high-pitched and almost effeminate.

"I think you know."

He'd never actually heard Red John's voice, but from Jane's description, Cho now had no doubt he was speaking at last with the serial killer he'd hunted for a decade. Cho had always hoped it would be across an interrogation table with plenty of guns pointed at his head.

"Where's Van Pelt?"

"Aw, the lovely Grace. So aptly named. It's a pity you couldn't save her. What will you tell poor Agent Rigsby?"

It was as if he'd read his mind. How very Jane-like. Cho initially felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach, but resisted allowing despair to set in. He knew Red John was a master of manipulation, that it was very possible he was just messing with him. Part of his training in the Army had been resistance to torture and mind control, and he knew instinctively it would take all that training to prevent himself from turning into another Kristina Frye or any one of Red John's minions he'd encountered over the years.

"What do you want from me?" he asked calmly.

"Nothing, yet. Just your patience. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa, as it were."

A small, hinged slot at the bottom of the door suddenly opened, and a covered tray was slid inside the room. He smelled the unmistakable odor of Chinese takeout and wrinkled his nose. Red John laughed at his expression.

"Oh, that's right. It's Rigsby who loves Chinese food. Next meal, I'll order you a pizza, no pineapple."

Cho's eyes widened.

"Who the hell _are _you?" Cho repeated. He felt a chill as he realized how closely Red John must have been watching him over the years. But there was no further reply, and Cho was left with a splitting headache and a room that smelled sickeningly of moo shoo pork.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"My son and Red John met on the Ellison farm when they were teenagers. I'd sent Raymond there—"

"_Raymond?_" _No_, she thought. _He couldn't be. _But the image of the handsome CBI agent, graying at the temples, flashed before her mind. Sometimes, she realized now, his light eyes would sparkle in a very familiar way. "Your son is Ray Haffner?"

"Well, he is now. I don't know where he came up with _Haffner_, but he was born Raymond Stiles. His mother died when he was an infant."

Lisbon had to wrap her mind around the shock of it. Sure, she'd known her friend might have been Red John, given Jane's infamous list of seven, but the confirmation that he was a minion of a murderer somehow seemed an even bigger blow. She swallowed. Nothing to do for it now.

"Go on," she urged quietly. Stiles nodded.

"Raymond had been a rebellious child. He didn't like the rules surrounding living here within the confining walls of Visualize. I thought a stint working on the farm might be good for him, build some character. But after a year there, he and the man you know as Red John showed up on my doorstep, claiming to have had enough. From then on, Raymond was a model child, never complaining about anything. I thought I'd won." He laughed without humor. "I couldn't have been more wrong."

"What happened to him?" she asked, her voice filled with trepidation.

"John had manipulated Raymond into arranging an introduction with me, claiming he wanted to become just like me. He begged to learn all that I could teach him, about Visualize, about our self-help methods that had brought peace to hundreds of lost souls. I taught him hypnosis, cold reading—mentalist tricks Patrick would appreciate-that were designed to get into the minds of those seeking enlightenment. It was meant to be a help in understanding the needs of the individual followers. People were drawn to him, wanted instinctively to share their thoughts and fears with him, their happiest memories.

"He brought in new members by the dozens. In the meantime, Raymond became John's greatest fan. It was clear he idolized the man, would do whatever he asked more readily than he would for his own father. It was around that time that we found the mutilated body of a young woman in one of our campus dorm rooms. A red smile had been drawn with her blood on the wall."

"When was this?" she asked, her mind retracing the timeline of Red John's known murders.

"1991."

"Seven years before we knew of his existence." Lisbon's voice turned angry. "Why didn't you report this to the police?"

"Because I was afraid it had been Raymond's doing," he said simply, his face recalling the horror he must have felt at his suspicions.

"And was it?"

"No. I have reason to believe now that it wasn't, of course. And I had no real proof of anything at the time either. The girl had been an orphan, all alone in the world. I decided to handle the investigation internally. When all the circumstantial evidence pointed to John, I confronted him. He didn't deny it, but in turn, he had something on me."

Lisbon nodded for him to continue.

"I was responsible for someone's death long ago, and while it had been an accident, John had managed to drag this information out of someone in order to use it against me. He threatened to get the police involved, to ruin me and Visualize forever. Plus, he told me for the first time that he would kill Raymond the same way if I did anything about it. I believed him."

"So you just let him get away with murder?"

"I'm ashamed that I did, Agent Lisbon. But I felt trapped. I tried to disengage Raymond from John, but by then he was too far gone, too deeply under Red John's spell. His devotion to John was like an addiction—worse than any drug. I'm sorry if you don't understand, but this was my son's life at stake, along with those whom Visualize had helped. I had no idea what he was capable of, how he'd exact his revenge. I could have very well been looking at another Jonestown."

He paused to collect himself, realizing that his voice had become uncharacteristically passionate. He continued his story, his tone on its usual even, almost soothing keel.

"Red John is a vain, vain man, Agent Lisbon, fearful of being slighted or misrepresented, as Patrick so terribly discovered first hand. I have never met a man so evil, so twisted, so manipulative. I soon found out that he had been systematically stealing some of my most vulnerable new Visualize followers from right under my nose. He had slowly started to turn them against me, to claim I was a false profit, bent on building up an army of slaves to do my bidding. It very nearly came to a violent mutiny before I begged John just to leave, to take his followers and break off to found his own church. I was grateful he took my advice, but then he took Raymond with him too…"

"I'm sorry," she found herself saying, because it was true. But it still didn't excuse the secret he'd kept all these years, while he stood idly by and watched all those innocent people die when he could have stopped it.

"Why didn't you have him killed? And don't give me that _peaceful religion_ garbage."

Stiles smiled slightly, but for once it didn't meet his pale blue eyes. "He told me if he died, Raymond's death with be automatic. I had no reason to doubt he was capable of arranging such a thing."

"But why are you telling me this now?" Lisbon asked, trying to get to the cult leader's true intentions.

"Because despite what you may think, I haven't been standing idly by."

She was startled that he had so accurately read her mind. She could see why Jane thought him such a worthy opponent.

"I realized that to bring him down, to allow me to take back my son, I had to get Red John in such a way that he would never know it was me. When I first heard of Patrick Jane, I spied at last a kind of hope. Here was a man as gifted in the ways of manipulation as John had been, who had pegged John's character perfectly. Of course, I was sorry to hear he was made to suffer for it, but a year after his family's death, Patrick came knocking on the CBI's door. That same year, Raymond and John joined the CBI. I did the only thing I could think of to do—I sent my own man in to keep tabs on them all, to help Patrick however he anonymously could, to see how close he was to discovering Red John's true identity. You will never find a man more motivated for justice than a vengeful father, Agent Lisbon, trust me on this."

"Unless it is a vengeful sister," she countered coldly.

He smiled. "Touché."

"In recent weeks," Stiles continued, "my man has discovered how close Patrick really is now. Patrick's come to his conclusions all on his own, and I haven't had anything to do with it. Well, not directly," he concluded, a bit of the old sparkle returning.

"Who is it?" she asked. "Who is your inside man?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. In for a penny… "You know him as Bob Kirkland."

Lisbon was very glad she didn't have a heart condition, but her hand went to her chest all the same. "Mother of God," she whispered.

"I understand you must feel like your whole world has been a lie, but I promise, I have done what I could along the way, protected Patrick even. Protected you and your team as well, Teresa. It has been a long road to get to this place, but I feel the end of this nightmare is finally near."

"You mean we could all end up dead now."

"Perhaps," Stiles conceded. "But Kirkland called and told me what John did to Patrick's house, and I'm fairly certain Patrick knows who Red John is at last."

Lisbon's face became suddenly blank. Stiles chuckled. "Has anyone ever told you have the worst poker face in the world?"

She frowned, thinking of Jane. "Frequently."

Another thought occurred to her. "Partridge even took your first name as part of his disguise, didn't he?"

Stiles nodded. "Yes, but with an extra _t _at the end_,_ meant to symbolize, no doubt, how I was somehow lacking. I'm fairly certain his assumed sir name came from the painting by his favorite poet and artist, William Blake. I'm sure it amused him greatly."

Red John's references to the poet had been the subject of years of Jane's close study. All the mysterious pieces were finally falling into place.

"And now, I'm finally in a position to be one step ahead of John without him knowing I'm a part of it," proclaimed Stiles. "He'll never see it coming and Raymond I know will be with him, so I can protect him. The two of them have not been back at Visualize together since the day they left. I won't have to fear that someone is holding a knife to his throat while I strangle the bastard with my bare hands."

The door to the bedroom suddenly opened, and Jane appeared, his face grim.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stand in line, my friend," he said. Then Jane looked down at his sling and shrugged sheepishly. "On second thought, I might need some help with that."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he got the call about the accident, Rigsby drove at breakneck speed toward the scene, narrowly avoiding a crash, himself.

"There was no one in the SUV," the CHP officer had told him. The vehicle tag had shown it was registered to the CBI, and the officers on the scene had found one abandoned cell phone—it had been Cho's. The last call had been to Rigsby.

"What do you mean? Are they…were they thrown from the cab?" He tried not to picture the mangled body of Van Pelt lying at a broken angle on the side of the freeway, her vibrant hair matted with blood.

"No, sir. There were no bodies found at all. There are signs that the vehicle door on the driver's side was pried open with a crowbar. We're checking area hospitals in hope that some Good Samaritan rescued them and took them in on his own…"

When Rigsby arrived at the wreckage, his heart jumped into his throat as he saw how the SUV had rolled down the embankment in what must have been a terrifying ride. There had been no skid marks, so they must not have had any time to stop, themselves. They had likely swerved to avoid something—maybe another car—or something had violently run into them, sending them plunging off the road.

"We found blood in the cab and on the ground near the vehicle."

"Get a sample of that, will you," said Rigsby, still shaking inside, though trying hard to keep his voice level.

"Yes, sir."

Rigsby walked around the dented SUV, noting how the side indentations showed they had definitely rolled, but then he stopped at the rear of the vehicle. The back bumper was dented in, the rear windshield shattered. The roll might have caused that, but something had obviously slammed hard enough into the back to have pushed the bottom of the hatchback in almost half a foot.

"Holy shit," he muttered. Either someone had been following them way too closely, and Cho (the more likely driver) had braked suddenly, sending the other vehicle plowing into the SUV's rear end, or someone had deliberately rammed into them from behind. With the two of them gone, Rigsby had the sudden cold fear that someone had taken them. But who? And why?

On impulse, Rigsby pulled out his phone and dialed Van Pelt. It rang three times before an unfamiliar voice picked up.

"Agent Rigsby, I presume," said the high pitched voice.

"Where's Grace?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, but she's unable to come to the phone at the moment. Poor thing, she'll be unable to do much of anything, ever again."

"What the hell have you done to her?" he shouted into his phone. He didn't even register the startled glances of the cops nearby.

The man's laughter sent an icy chill up his spine. It was at that moment that Rigsby realized, in abject horror, who had his best friends.

"Red John," he whispered.

"And I always thought you were the slouch of the team. If you want them, Agent Rigsby, you know how to find them. Oh, and come alone, or they die."

The connection was lost, and Rigsby felt the world tilt on its axis, his breaths coming out in quick pants. Cold sweat trickled down his back, and he stood on the side of the road, the sound of fast-moving traffic zipping by, stirring the breeze and shaking the ground beneath his feet.

_What now, what now?_

Normally he would call Lisbon for guidance, or Grace, his beautiful computer whiz, to track the call. Cho would have some ideas about what to do next, and Jane—he would already know instinctively where the monster had taken them. But they were gone. They were all gone, and Rigsby felt like the loneliest man on earth. The seconds were ticking by, and he knew he had to pull himself together or he would lose them through his own helpless inaction. He took a few deep breaths, like Jane had shown him once. It seemed to help, and he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, briefly closed his eyes, then looked down at his phone.

_You know how to find them, _the serial killer had said.

"Of course," he said aloud, and pressed the button for the CBI's Computer Crimes Task Force. "This is Wayne Rigsby. I need you to put out a GPS tracker on Grace Van Pelt's cell phone, on Director Bertram's order," he lied.

Well, he couldn't exactly give Lisbon's name. The APB had gone out on her and Jane right before he'd gotten the call from CHP. They were wanted for the murder of Reede Smith.

Rigsby thought of and discounted several people it occurred to him to call, for Jane's contention that there were still Red John's spies somewhere within law enforcement made him reluctant to trust anyone. Red John needn't have worried that he would bring anyone with him, he thought with bitter irony.

Wayne Rigsby was completely on his own.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane sat alone in the small detention room in the Visualize complex, waiting for Red John to arrive. The room had no windows and the door locked from the outside. A concealed video camera, wired for sound, was imbedded into the ceiling. Stiles hadn't volunteered to explain what the room was really used for, but Jane surmised that it was used to convince doubters to stay with the Visualize program, by whatever means the guru deemed necessary. Jane wasn't particularly comfortable in there, but if the ruse that Stiles was holding him captive was going to work, it had to look real. So, he sat at the table, barefoot, one arm in a sling held to his chest, his other hand resting on the arm of the chair.

He used the deep breathing method he'd taught to Lisbon, attempting to clear his pain killer fogged mind. He'd have preferred to have been sharper, readier for this meeting, but there was nothing for it. It seemed that he and Red John had come to an impasse, and it was absolutely now or positively never. This meeting would determine who would live and who would not.

The small pistol Stiles had given Jane felt cold against his skin, but the knowledge that it was there was a comfort to him. He was surprised Stiles had trusted him with it. Lisbon had been supremely annoyed. Jane smiled a little at the memory of her string of expletives.

Once Jane had Red John in this room with him, he would have no problem shooting the monster in the heart. Had he two working arms, he would fulfill his long time fantasy of carving him up as he had Jane's family, but sometimes vengeance doesn't always work out the way one intends. He pushed the failure that was Timothy Carter out of his mind. There was no doubt now the real identity of Red John. His thoughts strayed to Lisbon, and the tender, fearful kiss they'd exchanged before Stiles locked him in here.

"I love you," she'd whispered. "Please don't get yourself killed, just when things are finally going our way."

He'd smiled warmly at her. "That's the plan. I've got a lot more to live for these days."

At this moment, she was in a hospital bed in Dr. Thompson's small clinic, pretending she had been overcome by smoke inhalation, an oxygen mask strapped to her face so that Red John wouldn't worry about her interference. Once Red John was inside with Jane, she would watch them in the detention room from a secret observatory. She had wanted to be in the room with them, but Jane had adamantly refused. Jane intended to commit murder, and he wanted Lisbon to have no part in it. He would tell her later that the bullet he planted in Red John's brain had been for James.

The low, metallic slide of the key in the lock had Jane at first stiffening, then forcing himself to relax, though his heart felt like it was about to pound out of his chest.

_It's only that irksome Brett Partridge, _he told himself. But then the man appeared.

Red John stood in the doorway wearing an expensive blue suit and a blood red tie, obviously meant to amuse himself. His hair was slicked back in defiance of the bedhead style Partridge had been sporting lately, though his blue eyes were amused instead of ghoulishly excited.

His demeanor now was completely different from the awkward, geeky forensic analyst. As Red John, he exuded charm and charisma by the bucket load, and Jane was left with the unfamiliar anger of having been made the ultimate mark. It wasn't to say that Partridge hadn't always given him the willies, that he hadn't sensed something off and intrinsically irritating about the man, but Jane had been bamboozled, plain and simple. It took a powerful persona to be able to turn one's personality on and off like a light switch, and if he didn't hate the man with his entire being, he'd actually admire that quality.

"Patrick," said Red John, taking a moment to stand over him, in a show of dominance. "I see news of your death, etcetera, etcetera…"

"Yes," Jane managed. "It happens." Again, he'd summoned the ghost of Timothy Carter.

"Sorry to see you're injured. Stiles said you jumped from the second story. Very brave of you. In case you were wondering, the house was a total loss."

Jane could summon nothing to say. Red John had killed another happy memory and nothing he could say would bring it back. He was trying to get a rise out of Jane, and he planned to stoically resist.

"May I?" Red John asked politely, indicating the chair across the table.

Jane inclined his head. "Of course."

He lowered his lank frame gracefully into the cushioned seat. "So it would seem, _I _have caught you."

"Well, technically it was Stiles, but since he's obviously one of your lackeys, I suppose I'll give this one to you."

"Actually, I prefer _minions_."

"I'll bet."

_I could kill him now_, thought Jane, his pulse accelerating again. _End this right now_.

He knew Lisbon wouldn't begrudge him, had actually told him to make it quick. But there were still too many unanswered questions. Too many mysteries that wouldn't give him peace if he just took him out that way.

"Nice shirt, by the way," said Red John wryly. "I hope this doesn't mean you've found religion. Bret Stiles has ruined far too many perfectly good sinners that way."

"It's just on loan," explained Jane. "My only religion is vengeance, remember?"

"Aw, yes. That. Well, since that is no longer an option," he said dismissively, "I'm wondering what I should do with you, now that I have you."

Red John tapped his lower lip in a gesture so familiar to Jane that he blanched against his will.

"I think firstly, I should make you watch me carve up the lovely Teresa," Red John continued casually. "But on second thought, I always wondered how that hot little body would feel, struggling under mine. Pretty good, eh?"

Of course, he would know the depth of their relationship now.

"Go to hell," Jane said tightly, literally seeing red at the thought of him touching her in any way. So much for stoicism.

"Aw, but neither of us believe in such a place, do we, Patrick?"

"Oh, I'm starting to." _Calm, Jane. Calm. _He told himself. "So, before you rape and murder my girlfriend in front of me, tell me, how did you know about Eileen Barlow?"

He regarded him a moment, and Jane wondered if maybe he should have been less direct. To his immense disappointment, Red John changed the subject.

"You know, Patrick, now that I can speak frankly, without fear of getting fired, I'd just like to say you've always been a real asshole to me. I would have resented it had I not found it so amusing to watch you try to figure out what it was about me that set you off so much."

"You knew just what buttons to push, all right," Jane conceded. "How did you find out about my list of names, months before I even knew?" He tried again from a different angle.

"I'm psychic, just like you." Red John actually winked at him.

"Come on," said Jane. "We've both seen all the movies. The villain always explains his plans, exposes his tricks like a bad magician, just for the satisfaction of knowing he got one over on the hero."

"So you're the hero in this piece?" Red John laughed softly. "I guess that's the perspective you _would_ take. Okay, I'll humor you."

From his inside suit coat pocket, Red John produced a linoleum knife, the kind he'd used on Jane's wife and child. With the point of the curved blade, he began absently to clean beneath his fingernails, the action designed of course to mess with Jane's head. Jane had to admit it was working, for seeing the serial killer with a knife in his hand instilled a sudden cold terror within him, and he stared at the shiny blade, almost mesmerized.

"The night you slept with Lorelei in Vegas, she drugged you with sodium pentothal, and I paid you a little visit, asking you a few rather pointed questions. Some of your happiest memories, for example."

Jane stared at him. He had wondered why he'd slept so long after he'd had sex with Lorelei. It certainly hadn't been because it had been as mind-blowing and sensually exhausting as it had been with Lisbon. He'd remembered nothing after having sex with Red John's girl, and had attributed it at the time to the alcohol and insomnia catching up with him, and he'd awakened hours later to the smelling of scrambling eggs.

"Why didn't you just kill me right then, in my sleep?" Jane asked curiously.

"Because I wasn't ready for the game to be over."

"And now?"

"All good things, as they say."

"So you're just gonna commit murder here, at Visualize?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. But no, I have a much more…fitting location for what I have planned for you, my old friend."

"What about the list of seven? How did you know whom I'd narrowed it down to?"

"You know, it would be much better torture if I didn't tell you anything, left you to die ignorant. Stiles passed it along to me, and I merely doctored the DVD. Incredible what you can do with a computer these days. Kept you guessing, did I?"

"Yes, very clever. So…Stiles," said Jane. It had to have been Kirkland who broke into the attic that day and he in turn had reported it to Stiles. There apparently was nothing Stiles wouldn't do to protect his son.

"Yes, the man who took you in actually works for me. My reach is farther than you could ever dream, Patrick. _He is many_, to quote poor Mr. Renfrew." The macabre writing had literally been on the wall even then.

"I do find I regret having to kill Lorelei. She will be hard to replace. That's on you, of course, as are the deaths of all the others you've thrown in my path. You killed them, as surely as if you'd wielded the weapons yourself."

"No," said Jane. "Oh, I take some responsibility, but I've come to realize that you are the murderer, and if there is a hell, you'll be Satan's number one draft pick."

Red John smirked, and then he suddenly appeared impatient.

"I have to admit, Patrick, I'm already tired of bandying about with you. I think we'll both be more comfortable back at my place. Stiles was kind enough to provide an ambulance for transporting Agent Lisbon, so I assure you she'll be perfectly comfortable. Well, at least for awhile."

He rose from his chair, then knocked once on the door. No one came. Red John looked extremely annoyed. He knocked again, more forcefully, then tried the door. It was locked. The serial killer almost looked embarrassed.

"Ray!" he called furiously through the door. "Open the goddamn door!"

Before he could stop and think, Jane stood and slid his perfectly fine right had inside the sling to grasp the gun he'd hidden there. His broken left arm hung uselessly and painfully at his side. His ruse had worked, for at first Red John looked back at him with shocked surprise.

"You should never bring a knife to a gun fight," said Jane calmly, carefully aiming Stiles's pistol at the madman's chest. He nodded toward the linoleum knife Red John still held. "Drop it on the floor and kick it away from you."

Red John made no move to obey. "Well, I gotta hand it to you, Patrick. You got me. Well played. But before you exact your revenge and put a bullet through my black heart, you should know a pertinent minor detail. I have in my possession a couple of people whom I know are very near and dear to you." He grinned. "I've always wanted to match wits with the brilliant Kimball Cho. He'll be a real challenge to bend to my will. And then there is Grace. You know, I've always had a thing for redheads…"

Jane believed him completely, and his stomach clenched sickeningly.

"Where the hell are they?" he demanded, tightening his grip on the gun.

"If I don't check in with my people within a certain amount of time, they are instructed to kill them in a very nasty way. Bertram in particular has become very proficient with a box blade."

Jane paled, and he saw his plan unraveling before his eyes. Well, at least he was somewhat right about Bertram, he thought absently.

"And if you don't tell me, I'll blow your brains out," said Jane.

"This," said Red John in amusement, "is what they call in those old movies you seem to like, a Mexican standoff.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Within the observation room, Lisbon gasped aloud as she watched the scene playing out on the closed circuit television. It felt surreally like she was watching a bad telenovela. She was briefly overcome with rage and fear and overwhelming impotence. But she pushed those emotions aside and picked up the nearby telephone. Rigbsy. She would call Rigsby. Red John hadn't mentioned having _him._ She punched the numbers into the landline phone, her eyes and ears still on Jane and Red John. Rigsby didn't answer, and her heart plummeted.

"Shit," she breathed.

"Lisbon!" called Jane from the other room. She reached over and pressed the intercom button linked to the detention room.

"I heard. Sit tight."

_Who else? Who else? _She thought, running through the small list of people she trusted. With Cho and Grace in Red John's grasp and Rigsby God-knows-where, that list was very small indeed. Then a sudden thought occurred to her, and she rushed out of the observation room, though she was torn about leaving Jane in there, alone with Red John, a gun, and no backup.

She sprinted down the hall to the hospital room where she had been faking her unconsciousness. Raymond Haffner was now in her place in the bed, heavily sedated. The moment Haffner had been separated from Red John, Stiles had planned to lure his son closer for a talk. Stiles's own cronies would jump Haffner from behind and stab him with a syringe. Stiles's plan must have worked.

Now, Stiles was sitting by Ray's side, holding his lifeless hand, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. The guards stationed there let her pass.

"I have my son back," Stiles said, upon Lisbon's hasty arrival. "Well, he's in my presence and out of danger for the first time in twenty years. It'll take months of deprogramming to—"

"That's great, Bret, really, but we have a bit of a problem on that other front."

Stiles rose. "What do you mean? Isn't it done yet?"

"No, Red John is still very much alive. He has Van Pelt and Cho. We can't kill him now."

"What can I do?"

"We need Bob Kirkland. I don't know his number off the top of my head."

"That's easy enough," said Stiles. He released Haffner's hand and pulled out his cell phone.

"Mr. Stiles," said Kirkland on the other end. Stiles put him on speakerphone.

"Hello, Bob. I need you to find Grace Van Pelt and Kimball Cho. Our friend has them in custody somewhere. I'm sure you know the likeliest places."

"I can't get hold of Rigsby," piped up Lisbon.

"Teresa?" said Kirkland in disbelief. There was a pause as the man tried to process what was going on.

"She knows everything, Bob," explained Stiles. "I'll explain later, but time, by Agent Lisbon's demeanor, seems to be of the essence. Call as soon as you know something."

"Yes sir."

"And Bertram works for Red John," Lisbon added.

"Yes," replied Kirkland. "I know."

"I need a gun," said Lisbon, when Stiles had put away his phone.

"You're not going to use it on me, I trust."

Lisbon frowned at his twinkling smile. "No. Sorry about before."

Stiles went to the door and nodded to one of the armed guards stationed outside Haffner's room. "Agent Lisbon needs your sidearm," he instructed. The burly man handed it to her without question.

"Thanks."

"What are you planning to do with John?"

"Until we find our friends, we keep him alive."

Stiles nodded. "Unfortunate, but understandable."

"I'll be with Jane," she said, and she dashed out of the room before he could reply.

At the door to the detention area, Lisbon paused. "I'm coming in," she said, before unlocking it with Stile's key and slowly turning the knob, her gun at the ready.

From there, things happened very quickly. Red John was still standing by the door, still refusing to relinquish his knife. They'd been at a stalemate since Lisbon's plea to wait, but now, in two quick movements, Red John pulled open the door and ducked low, the table between him and Jane, the heavy door between him and Lisbon. Red John slammed the door back toward its casing, catching Lisbon in the forehead, her gun clattering to the floor. She stumbled forward into the room, stunned.

Jane's attention had been instantly caught by Lisbon, his moment of inattention giving Red John just enough time to grab Lisbon and press the linoleum knife to her neck. At the same time, Jane ran around the table.

"Put down the fuckin' gun, Patrick," said Red John tightly, "or I'll slit her pretty throat."

All three stood frozen in place now, panting with adrenalin.

Red John was furious. He'd been tricked and deceived, and now he couldn't wait for the scent of blood as he exacted his revenge, starting with the pleasingly curved Agent Lisbon. He breathed in the faint smell of smoke that lingered in her soft hair, feminine sweat, and lemons.

"Well," Red John said. "Isn't this interesting?"

"Drop the knife," said Jane, now once again with a clear shot at the murderer.

"You realize that even if you shoot me, my dying move will be to tear this blade into her jugular, right? Not to mention the fact that your other friends will be dead in oh, about five minutes, if I don't call."

"You're lying," said Jane confidently, for the first time being able to read the man since he walked into the room.

"Am I?"

"Yes," smiled Jane triumphantly. "There's much more time than that."

Red John pressed the knife into Lisbon's throat, and a tiny trickle of blood ran down her porcelain neck. She gasped at the stinging pain, and Jane's arm stretched closer to the killer.

"Ah-ah…But not much more time for Teresa," warned Red John.

Lisbon's imploring green eyes met Jane's. _Do it, _she mouthed. Jane hesitated.

"You're wondering if you're really that good a shot," Red John reasoned. "I'd say your safest option is to let me go."

Jane gave the briefest of smiles. "You should know I never play it safe."

Then he shot Red John dead center between his feverish blue eyes.

Red John's body lurched back, thrown into the wall by the force of the close-range shot. He slid down, leaving a trail of blood and brain matter on the wall behind him. The report of the gunfire was deafening in the small room, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils, and for a moment Jane was disoriented and in shock by what he'd done. Clutching her throat, Lisbon fell to her knees, blood gushing through her fingers. With a devastated cry, Jane rushed to catch her before she hit the floor, her eyes staring with fear up into his. He cradled her head in his lap helplessly, then he pulled off his Visualize shirt and pressed it to her neck.

"Help!" he yelled hoarsely toward the open doorway.

"Don't try to talk," he said to Lisbon, tears streaming down his face. "Stay with me, Teresa."

He watched in panic as her eyes closed as she slipped out of consciousness. By then, a bevy of security guards, along with Dr. Thompson, had already been drawn to the room by the gunshots, and Thompson took over for Jane, shoving him almost violently out of the way. She lifted Jane's shirt from Lisbon's neck and her brow furrowed.

"Will she be all right?" Jane asked, his voice trembling with incredible fear.

"I don't know," she said gravely, pressing the shirt back onto her gaping wound. Blood was already seeping through the fabric. Jane felt nauseous, cold sweat forming on his brow.

One of the guards was checking Red John for a pulse, and he shook his head at Jane, who found he no longer gave a damn.

"The other one's dead," the guard reported to the doctor.

"Pick her up gently," Thompson ordered the two guards. "Take her to the clinic." They did as she commanded, the doctor still holding the shirt against Lisbon's neck as each man carried one end of her limp body.

Jane hurried helplessly after them, barefoot and bare-chested, until they reached the same room where Dr. Thompson had examined them earlier. They laid Lisbon on a hard exam table. She went to work immediately, a nurse appearing as if from nowhere to assist.

"Get out, Mr. Jane," she ordered.

"Not on your life," he said. "I'm not leaving her."

Thompson shrugged and focused her efforts on her patient. "Stay out of the way then."

"Patrick?" It was Stiles at the doorway. "What happened?"

"Red John had a knife," he replied simply.

"I'm sure Dr. Thompson will give her the best of care."

"There was a lot of blood," Jane whispered, and he felt the old man's warm hand on his bare shoulder.

"Come with me and we'll get you a new shirt. You don't really want to see this."

Thompson shot Stiles a look of gratitude. The last thing she needed was an inconsolable lover in her exam room.

Jane reluctantly allowed himself to be steered away, but he wouldn't leave the chair outside the door. Stiles shot a look at a concerned Visualize member, who went off in search of another spare shirt. Stiles sat down in the chair beside him.

"I'm told Red John is dead."

"Yes," said Jane, wiping his eyes with the back of his good hand, still clutching the gun that had killed Red John. His left arm had begun to throb painfully, having been jostled often in the fray. "I think you can put the gun down now," said Stiles gently.

"Huh?" He looked at the weapon and handed it to Stiles. "Oh."

Jane distantly remembered how much he hated guns. He twisted the sling, still around his neck, and gingerly put his left arm back in it, then put his head in his right hand.

"I've killed them," Jane muttered, remembering. "Grace and Cho. They'll be dead because of me. Because I chose Lisbon."

"Bob Kirkland is on it," said Stiles. "He'll find Wayne Rigsby, and they'll find your friends. Agent Lisbon saw to that."

Jane looked over at Stiles. "Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome, Patrick."

Suddenly, from all over the Visualize complex, cell phones began to chime and vibrate.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Where did the signal from her phone come from," Bob Kirkland demanded of the hapless Computer Crimes tech. "Look, I'm with the Department of Homeland Security. This is a matter of national security—"

The tech gave him the location, and Kirkland ended the call. He pulled up Stiles's number again.

"Mr. Stiles," he told him. "I've located Van Pelt. I'll let you know when I have her. Still no contact with Rigsby. I bet he's ignoring my calls…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Rigbsy glanced at his ringing cell, saw it was Kirkland, and tossed it back in the SUV's console. He didn't need Kirkland ordering him around right now, and for all he knew, the creepy guy was with Red John anyway.

Rigsby found the address and drove past the nondescript house in a quiet, middle class part of Folsom. He parked in the alley, several houses down. He pulled out his rifle from its case in the back, and secured his bulletproof vest more tightly around his waist. The evening light began to wane. He checked his sidearm, then his hands did a quick inventory of the rest of his arsenal. He had a flash-bang grenade in one pocket of his pants, some C4 in the other.

He had no idea what he was walking into, and with no one else he could trust, it might very well be a suicide mission. But he couldn't just do nothing. If he was going down, at least he would go down fighting.

He climbed over the low back fence and crept up to one of the rear windows, expecting to be confronted any minute. He peeped inside the house, and saw he had found the kitchen. Two men sat in chairs, their faces planted on the table, still as death. Rigsby's eyes narrowed, and he went up three steps to the back door. He turned the doorknob gently, surprised to find it unlocked. Gun drawn, he opened the door and stepped inside.

He walked over to the two men at the table, nudging them with his gun. No reaction. He reached out a tentative finger and touched the pulse point at one man's neck. He was dead, but still warm. He squatted down to look at the other man's face, slightly turned to the side in death, his eyes wide open, foam and spittle at the corners of his mouth. _Poison_, thought Rigsby in horror.

He noticed that there were cell phones on the table before each of them, but he walked further into the house, gun ready. He found two more bodies in the hallway, having likely died in the same manner as his companions in the kitchen. Rigsby felt a cold wave of fear wash over him. Would he find Grace and Cho in the same condition?

He cleared the rest of the house before returning to the hallway, where the men there seemed to have been guarding the two closed doors he hadn't checked yet. He tried one, found it locked, then took the keys from one of the guards. He opened the door and found Cho, poised to stab him with a plastic fork and kick him in the groin.

"Jesus!" Rigsby exclaimed, stepping back and lowering his rifle.

"No," said Cho, grinning. "Just me."

Rigsby had never been so happy to see anyone in his life, and he went to enfold his friend in a bear hug. Cho groaned in pain, still sore from the wreck.

"Oh, sorry," laughed Rigsby, releasing him awkwardly. He looked around the empty room. "Where's Grace?"

Cho's face fell. "I don't know. Red John told me she was dead," he said gently. "Maybe he was lying."

Rigsby paled. "There's one more room I haven't checked," he said hopefully, handing Cho his sidearm. "Everyone else is dead."

"What?"

"Your captors," explained Rigsby, leading the way out of Cho's prison. They stepped over the bodies in the hallway. "Poison, I think. I'd bet on cyanide. There are two more just like them in the kitchen."

Rigsby tried the keys in the lock on the other door, but none of them worked. He and Cho exchanged glances, raised their weapons, then Rigsby kicked in the door.

Grace was in a hospital bed, half of her face covered in bandages, IV fluids dripping steadily into her arm. A nurse who had been sitting by her side was dead too. With a strangled cry, Rigsby rushed to Van Pelt's side. He was overwhelmed by gratitude to see that a heart monitor was recording a strong, steady beat, her blood pressure low, though stable. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

"Grace?" he whispered. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up at Rigsby blearily.

"Wayne?" she said, so softly he could barely hear her.

"Yes, sweetheart, it's me."

He tossed his phone to Cho. "Call an ambulance. The address of this house is on the GPS."

"Thank God," he heard Van Pelt mutter, before she promptly slipped back into a deep sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kirkland arrived at Red John's Folsom house just as the ambulance did, the lights flashing brightly in the night. He showed his badge to the Folsom officers on the scene and marched up the front steps. Rigsby and Cho greeted him warily at the door.

"Don't shoot," he said wryly. "I come in peace."

"How did you know to come here?" asked Rigsby suspiciously.

"We have a mutual friend," said Kirkland.

"Red John," suggested Cho.

"No. And Red John is dead, by the way. Jane killed him earlier this evening at Visualize."

"What?" the partners said together. Kirkland gave them the abbreviated version of events, before confessing that he not only worked for Homeland Security, but for Bret Stiles as well.

"I want to talk to Jane and Lisbon," said Cho.

"It might be difficult to speak to Lisbon just now. I think she's still in surgery. Red John cut her throat with a linoleum knife, from what I gathered. I'll call Stiles and see if he can put Jane on for you."

Just then, the paramedics brought out Van Pelt on a rolling gurney, the IV and monitors still attached. Rigsby abruptly forgot Kirkland and followed his love to the ambulance.

"I see you both lived through the accident," Kirkland said to Cho, nodding toward Van Pelt on the gurney.

"Yeah. Someone rammed into us, rolled us off the road."

"I saw the wreckage. It's a wonder you survived."

Kirkland handed his phone to Cho.

"Mr. Stiles, Kimball Cho. I need to talk to Jane."

"Of course, Kimball. So glad to hear you're all right. Patrick is right here."

"Cho," said Jane anxiously.

"Yeah. Rigsby found us."

"_Us?_ Grace is okay?"

"Yeah. Some internal injuries from the crash, lacerations on her face. She'll be all right though."

Jane didn't reply, and Cho had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was crying on the other end of the phone.

"Jane? You there?"

Then he heard a spate of Jane's rare laughter.

"Thank God," said Jane, using the phrase for the first time in ten years, surprised to find that he meant it. For them to all be alive, a higher power had to have had a hand in it. Maybe Lisbon was finally rubbing off on him.

"How's the boss," asked Cho.

"She'll have a nasty scar on her neck, but the surgeon says she'll heal up just fine. Luckily there was a doctor close by to see to her right away. We're at Sacramento General now. Stiles is about to leave with his phone, so you can reach me here."

"You're still wanted for murder," Cho pointed out.

Jane chuckled. "I'm pretty sure the state police and the FBI are too busy picking up all the bodies that are dropping like flies all over the state to worry about me now."

"What?"

"Practically the moment Red John died, a call went out to all his followers. Apparently they had a suicide pact, that if he was ever killed, they'd kill themselves."

That would explain the sudden demise of his guards, thought Cho.

"He's dead," said Cho, still in disbelief.

"Yeah," Jane replied, barely believing it himself. "It was Brett Partridge."

"No kidding," said Cho. The last time he'd seen the forensics guy, it had been at the scene of Jane's house fire. So it was true then; the arsonist always returns to the scene of the crime.

"Well, I'm glad you finally killed the bastard," said Cho simply.

Jane laughed again, glad beyond words that the marvelously dry CBI agent was still among the living.

"Me too, Cho," he told him. "Me too."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Epilogue**

_**One week later…**_

When the death count was all told, Red John's minions numbered 325, 305 of those in the state of California alone. They were state senators, law enforcement, FBI agents, a US congressman, a county sheriff and the director of the CBI. Housewives, insurance salesmen, teachers, blackjack dealers, among others, and a quarter of all Visualize members had been in service of Red John (much to Bret Stiles's dismay). Across the state and the country, cyanide victims were found in private homes and restaurants, in their cars and in their offices. Red John's network had extended far beyond what even Jane had surmised, beyond what Bret Stiles had known for certain. _He is many_ had been a vast understatement.

The CBI received Raymond Haffner's letter of resignation, and he remained with his father, Stiles still holding out hope that he would get his son back completely one day. Lisbon and Jane told no one of Haffner's involvement with Red John, and while they had their doubts that even Stiles could completely eradicate the serial killer's influence, they would give Stiles the chance to try.

In Sacramento General Hospital, Lisbon and Van Pelt had awakened to a completely different world, a world free of Red John and the menace that had hung over their heads for too long. They convalesced in the same room at the hospital, finding comfort in their close proximity.

It had taken a good week for Van Pelt to get out of bed, and Lisbon still could only speak in a whisper. Jane and Rigsby arrived just in time to see Van Pelt taking her first steps outside her hospital room.

"Hey!" said Rigsby excitedly, rushing to take over from the nurse who had been helping her shuffle slowly down the hall. Jane smiled at her progress.

"Hi," Grace said shyly. "Pretty flowers. You know, you don't need to bring me a new bouquet every day, Wayne. I feel like I'm living in a florist's shop."

Rigsby kissed her temple, careful to avoid her injured cheek. The plastic surgeon had examined it, deeming that the jagged scar she would have would be reparable. It still hurt, along with the torn stomach muscles, but she was healing faster than anyone had anticipated.

"Nothing is too good for you, my love," he whispered. If he could afford to cover the entire hospital with pink roses, he would.

"Looking good, Grace," said Jane with a smile.

"Thanks."

"Lisbon has a surprise for you," said Grace, her own smile mischievous.

"She does?" Jane hurried so quickly into their room that Van Pelt and Rigsby chuckled, Grace holding her stomach because it hurt when she laughed.

Jane found Lisbon sitting up in her bed, frustratingly flipping through the limited channels that the hospital received. _Where the hell was the Military Channel, for God's sake? _

But when Jane peaked around her curtains, she smiled and dropped the remote, opening her arms to him for a gentle kiss. Her hand went to his cheek, pleased that he had shaved, though she knew how difficult it was to do with one arm in a cast. She inhaled his pleasant aftershave, loving how relaxed he looked, especially around the eyes. With Red John gone and the charges dropped against them, they were both feeling freer than either of them could ever remember.

He kissed the tip of her nose and sat down on her bed, taking her hand in his. He looked suddenly like a child on Christmas morning, and she told him so.

"Grace said you had a surprise for me," he explained.

Lisbon swallowed, then opened her mouth to speak. "Yes," she said, her voice weak but fully audible. "I do."

His smile was brilliant, and he leaned forward to kiss her with a passion he'd been forced to withhold for a week. Her hands rose to touch his hair, reveling in the joy of just being able to feel him close to her, to know for certain that he loved her as much as she loved him.

"I can go home tomorrow," she told him when he sat back on the bed.

"Really?"

"Yes. And back to work in another week."

Jane frowned. "You sure about that? Why don't you take off another month? You must have at least a year's worth of unused vacation days you could take…"

"I'm going out of mind just sitting around," she said hoarsely, then reverted back to a whisper because it was still easier on her throat.

"Besides, the idea of you and the boys running things at work without a woman's insight is very...troubling."

Jane rolled his eyes. "And there she is. Little Miss Control Freak rears her ugly head once more."

"Ugly?"

Jane grinned, amused that she wasn't objecting to the control freak remark.

"Of course not, my dear. Just a figure of speech. You are truly the fairest maiden in the land."

She wrinkled her nose at that characterization. "I need to work, Jane," she said. "I need something to take my mind off things."

"Still having bad dreams?" he asked gently. How well he knew what that was like. He himself had been plagued with them all week—varying scenarios of how he'd missed his shot and Red John had eviscerated Lisbon before his eyes. She nodded without thinking about it, then grasped her bandaged neck at the twinge of pain.

Jane kissed her cheek. "Nothing like a good murder to get your mind off a murderer," he said dryly.

"Don't judge," she said. "You've been doing it for nearly ten years."

He shrugged unapologetically. "Well, then, you'll be happy to know we caught a case this week. That's why Cho's not here."

"Oh really?" she asked excitedly. _Now who looks like a kid at Christmas?_ "Tell me everything…"

He watched her as he detailed the case, loving all the reactions on her highly expressive face: her furrowed brow as she juggled the facts and missing pieces of the mystery, her disapproving frown at some of his usual unorthodox investigative techniques. In the middle of her familiar speech of admonishment for his behavior, he grabbed her and kissed her again, effectively shutting her up.

"I wish I'd thought of that years ago," he said, sitting back and enjoying the dazed look on her face.

_Now,_ he thought happily, _this is the expression I love most of all…_

**THE END**

**A/N: Thank you for reading, and to my dear partner, waterbaby134, for her usual fantastic work. I'm sure we'll work together again someday. In the meantime, please check out her independent projects, as well as my newest one with Nerwen Aldarion, "Double Talk."**


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